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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023027">and it's a bittersweet (symphony)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe'>Teroe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Clexaweek2020, Clexaweek2020 Day 5, F/F, and journalist!clarke, plot? i dont kno her, spider-man!Lexa, yea this has been a long time coming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 12:22:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,873</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23023027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“My name’s Clarke Griffin,” she says, and it’s professional despite how self conscious she feels when in reality it should be the opposite. She isn’t the one trapezing about New York in red and black spandex, and yet, somehow, face to face with this person she feels awfully small. “I work at the Ark.” Clarke pauses. “You haven’t told me yours.”</p><p>“Spider-man,” the woman says, and Clarke can hear the smile in it. Somewhere behind that mask, something small and gentle and warm. “Spider-woman as my friends like to call me. Or at least they would if I had any friends.”</p><p>The corner of Clarke’s lips quirk, and she tries to stop it but the resulting grin is inevitable. Her grasp tightens on the tape recorder in her hand and oh. This is bad. “That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“I know.”<br/>--<br/>or that spider-man!lexa au</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clarke Griffin/Lexa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>162</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>700</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is late and not nearly edited enough, but here's my humble clexaweek offering. I will fix things as i find them. I hope you enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>The first time she falls she’s nineteen and entirely too confident. Heady off the adrenaline and the rush--the freedom--distracted by the blur of her surroundings as it flies past. Missing her target, the strand of web shooting past its mark and with nothing to hold on to, she plummets, crashing through low hanging branches and prickly forest underbrush.</p><p>“Driving is a full time mental activity,” her uncle had said, a warning despite the smile and the white knuckled grip on the armrest between their seats. They weren’t even half way down their home street.</p><p>She understands that better now. Pain is a strict teacher, and it is nothing if not effective. She learns if only to avoid the embarrassment and subsequent pain. Trajectory and momentum--how to pick up speed fast and the exact point in a swing that will give the most air and the best distance.</p><p>And that progress is exhilarating. She’s felt stronger ever since the incident but this is different. A tangible manifestation of her improvement and growing ability and it is perhaps the biggest motivator.</p><p>But there are different ways to fall, and for some reason the ones that don’t leave bruises seem to hurt the most.</p><p>This however...</p><p>“Costia--” and her voice aches, feels raw as it rubs against the back of her throat. The rain, gentle on her back, slips down to her head, over her cheeks, and into her eyes. She blinks.</p><p>“Lexa, please--”</p><p>This is the worst.</p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>There’s a groan of metal, and she tightens her grip on the strands curled in her fist, the other squeezing around Costia’s fingers. The rain doesn’t help, and Costia’s hands are wet as she tries to readjust and superpowers be damned. It’s just a matter of seconds before things--</p><p>“Lex--”</p><p>The weight lifts, and Lexa lurches, reaching out but she swipes nothing but air. She has seconds maybe, and she uses the first two to make quick work of the teetering bus held aloft by her left hand, securing it to the plane of the bridge before kicking off. The wind whips past, the bits of her hair wrestled free from the mask toss mercilessly in the air and she aims, eyes wide in the dark, at the shape below her, bright against the blackness that is the east river at night.</p><p>She shoots, the web stretching out fast, and the moment she feels it connect, she twists midair, aiming up with the other. The lights of the bridge flicker in and out as she falls, but this won’t miss.</p><p>The webbing sticks, anchoring, and she wraps the strand around her wrist once, twice to brace for impact. When it hits she nearly screams, clenching her teeth at the pain that shoots through her shoulders, joints cracking at the whiplash and sudden strain of the muscles and sockets. Tears spring to her eyes, but she breathes, glancing down to find everything still intact. Costia’s body dangles suspended, and the breeze over the open water picks up speed. The sooner they’re back on solid ground the better.</p><p>She maneuvers herself, using her legs as tethering points and freeing her left hand, which she immediately puts to use, pulling at the tether keeping Costia aloft. She’s light, and Lexa tugs her up one arm length at a time.</p><p>But the closer she gets, the more the dread seeps in.</p><p>Lexa grunts with the last of the weight, wrapping an arm securely around Costia’s waist, holding her close. Her hair, captured by the breeze, mingles together with her own, and Lexa cups her cheek. Costia doesn’t open her eyes.</p><p>Her voice breaks. “<em>Cos</em>...”</p><p>Now the tears don’t stop.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Clarke!”</p><p>She turns toward the noise, hands pausing, stuffed into her laptop bag, finding the bobbing of Wells’ head over the top of the cubicles as he makes his way towards her. Clarke goes back to organizing,  packing away her pencils and pens and tiny notepad.</p><p>“Lunch?” Wells says, voice reaching out from behind her as he pokes his head around the wall. “Do you want some company?”</p><p>Clarke carefully stores her camera away in its case, putting that in her bag as well before zipping it up. Any other time and she’d snatch up the request, anything to get away from the stuffy atmosphere of her tiny corner cubicle on the 6th floor of the Ark. “Sorry, I’m heading out.”</p><p>“You’ve got somewhere to be?”</p><p>“The protests. On fourth street near the park. I finally convinced Kane it was a worthwhile investment and if I don’t do it justice then--” Clarke huffs, a frown forming. She doesn’t want to think of the alternatives. This is her chance. And it’s definitely more important than the superhero that still has the entire newsroom in a fit.</p><p>It's been years, after all. The pomp and circumstance is anything but new.</p><p>“The Wallace rally, you mean?”</p><p>“After the rally.”</p><p>Wells nods. “Oh.” He pauses. “You’re going to be safe right?”</p><p>Clarke slings her bag over her shoulder, smiling softly. “As I can be. I’ll call you if I run into trouble.”</p><p>“Please.” Wells says, backing up a little to allow her to exit. “I heard the last one devolved into some kind of riot.”</p><p>“That’s kind of what I’m hoping for,” Clarke replies with a grin, and she watches Wells roll his eyes before waving her off.</p><p>The elevator is practically empty and Clarke pulls out her phone in the lull, swiping through the news feeds and subscriptions. There’s nothing of note besides the usual, and she slips the phone back into her coat pocket when the doors slide open and she steps into the main foyer.</p><p>“See you tomorrow Clarke!” the secretary calls, and Clarke waves goodbye.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Are you really going to stay up late again?”</p><p>Clarke glances up from her work spread out over the coffee table, squinting at the light of the kitchen spreading into the living room. Somewhere in the brightness Raven watches her, dressed for bed in sweats and an old university t-shirt, holding her customary glass of water. Clarke looks away.</p><p>“Yeah, I uh...” her voice cracks and she clears her throat, shuffling through the stack loose-leaf papers with her scribbled notes. She closes her eyes briefly, feels the sting, but opens them again, focusing on the 11 o’clock news and closed captions scrolling across the bottom of the television before returning to her notes. “I’ve got some things to look through.”</p><p>“You’re going to make yourself sick, you know that? Kane’s got you working like a dog.”</p><p>“I knew what I signed up for, Raven. It’s my own fault if I can’t keep up with it.” Clarke blinks a couple times, waits for things to refocus. “This stuff is important and if no one else is going to cover it then...” She doesn’t want to think about it. The world is worse off enough as it is, but she does. She hasn’t figured out how to stop and perhaps that’s the problem. “The things he gets away with--”</p><p>“It’s bad, I know. You’ve told me,” Raven says quietly with a small smile despite Clarke’s glare, shifting her weight to one foot. “But you’re putting yourself through the ringer for it. There’s gotta be a middle ground.”</p><p>“I’ll let you know when I find it,” Clarke replies.</p><p>Raven shakes her head. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she says, and then wanders off to her room.</p><p>The apartment is silent without her. With the television on mute, there’s only the trickle of Larry’s water filter and the ever present noise of the late night traffic on the bustling streets downtown. Clarke stares idly at the screen, pen limp in her grasp, and the scene shifts. She doesn’t focus on the subtitles. Her mind wanders off, but she finds her eyes following the red and black clad superhero as he swings across the screen.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarke scrunches her shoulders, positioning the strap of her bag up near her neck, and already the cold November air sneaks in through the front entrance, tugging insistently at her jacket. She holds the collar closed with her left hand as she steps through revolving doors out into the throng, the other stuffed deep into her pocket, pulled along by the afternoon flow down the sidewalk towards the subway.</p><p>The sun shines bright, glinting off the passing cars down 5th street, and Clarke picks up her pace, crossing in time before the timer ticks down to zero and taxis and jerks on mopeds speed by, honking at the stragglers trailing behind in the crosswalk.</p><p>Somewhere far off there are sirens, underneath the hustle and bustle, and in the past few years in the city Clarke has heard so much of it she’s learned to tune it out. It becomes white noise, mixed in between the chatter of people lingering on the sidewalk waiting for the bus or with her on their way somewhere, mixed between the never ending rumble of engines.</p><p>Until it gets closer.</p><p>Clarke hears the ripple of shock as it spreads through the crowd and she turns just in time to see the van hurtling in her direction, the screech of the tires as it makes a turn too late. It veers, cutting the corner and the people behind her scramble from the sidewalk.</p><p>Her first thought is that she really hopes her camera doesn’t get ruined. It was expensive, and the last thing she needs is to be paying for the inevitable medical bills and a new camera.  The next thing she knows is that she’s weightless.</p><p>She’s never seen Spider-man up close. Well, except on television, but that hardly counts when it's mostly some shakey news camera video. Even after all the years the mask crusader has spent protecting their city, he’s remained somewhat of a mystery, but right now she kind of understands why. Clarke can feel her heart heavy against her ribs, and her hands shake despite being wedged between them. It’s the adrenalin for sure, the near miss of the car as it swerved. Anyone would be rattled. It has nothing to do with--</p><p>“Are you alright?”</p><p>Clarke looks up, the white of the eyes, that ridiculous suit. The soft, light voice.</p><p>She has trouble finding her own. “I--I’m fine.”</p><p>“Good. Please don’t stand so close to the road next time.”</p><p>The grip loosens from her waist and her feet finally touch down. A second later, Spider-man takes off.</p><p>Clarke’s eyes track the black and red figure as it takes off down 34th, and Clarke reacts on instinct alone. She bolts down the sidewalk, bypassing the subway entrance, and follows the noise down the block, weaving through the crowd.</p><p>7th avenue is no better. A fire hydrant pours out water onto the street, but the van is stopped, trapped in a mess of webbing. Not far away, a car has been knocked onto its side, the driver’s side dented and Clarke scrambles for her camera, digging through her bag and then the protective casing. She brings it up to her eyes, focusing the scope of the lens, holding until the steadiness of her hand centers on the costumed hero currently ripping the door off its hinges. She snaps a photo.</p><p>And then a couple more.</p><p>“Miss, please step back.”</p><p>Clarke pulls the camera away from her eye, glancing at the arm out in front of her, herding her back. She looks up at the policeman with a glare.</p><p>“I work at the Ark.”</p><p>“I don’t care. This isn’t a place for civilians, please step back.”</p><p>Clarke steps backward, but not without one last look for good measure. She stretches onto her toes, peering around the man in front of her. Spider-man is nowhere to be found, but the woman is out, safe and surrounded by paramedics, and a small collection of the police have already begun to sanction off a section of the sidewalk while others re-direct traffic down 7th avenue.</p><p>She glances at her watch and does a double take. Cursing, Clarke hastily stuffs her camera into her bag and retraces her steps, sprinting back the way she came towards the subway.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“This is some fine quality work, Clarke,” Kane says, shuffling through the photos. “Were you there when it happened?”</p><p>“Yeah I…” Clarke shuffles, closing her hand into a fist that she bumps awkwardly against her thigh. Kane’s desk is a myriad of papers and photos, and Clarke gets swept up in the chaos. “I got caught up in it.”</p><p>“I’m sure it was more than worth the risk.” He flips through the photos one more time. “Could you have a write-up for me by noon today? Gather up some more information. We can print it for the morning run.”</p><p>“The Wallace Rally--”</p><p>‘What about it? We’ll print it next week.”</p><p>“It’s important.”</p><p>“I’m sure it is, but right now our readers don’t want politics. They want this.” He waves the photos in the air for emphasis. “Spider-man, drama. Any newspaper worth their weight will be capitalizing on this come morning and if we don’t use what we have we’re fools.”</p><p>“Obviously.”</p><p>He stares at her, creased brow. “Listen, Clarke. If you can get me more of these,” he says, turning the photos around. Spider-man stares back at her. “I’ll give you free reign to run whatever shit you like.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Is it true?” Wells says, poking his head over the shared side of their cubicles. The look of sympathy almost makes Clarke forgive him for bringing it up.</p><p>Almost.</p><p>“Is what true?” comes Clarke’s knee jerk response. It comes out a little harsh and Clarke closes her eyes, takes a breath, and refocuses. When she opens her eyes again, her computer screen stares back at her. She looks to Wells. “Sorry, I’m….” another breath, “I’m a little tired.”</p><p>“I can see that.” He folds his arms over the divider. “I mean who wouldn’t be. You’re basically working one and a half jobs--like ten extra hours per week? If not more. That’s a lot on one plate.”</p><p>“I can do it.”</p><p>“I know you can.” Wells shakes his head. “But that doesn’t make you any less superhuman.”</p><p>Clarke barely manages to stop the frown, pursing her lips. “That makes me a decent human being.”</p><p>“Tomato, tomahto,” Wells says, teasing, and for some reason it makes her smile. Her lips tilt upwards and so does Wells’ and the conversation descends into a natural lull. Around them phones rings and the click of keyboards provides some semblance of normality. “Do you want help?”</p><p>“No it’s fine. I’ll just--” she cuts off with a sigh, shrugging a shoulder. Clarke runs her fingers through her hair, moving it from her face. “do what I always do. I’ll google it or something.”</p><p>Wells chuckles. “Good luck with that one.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Turns out you can’t just google the location of the friendly neighborhood superhero. Though Clarke does find a  “where is Spider-man now?” account on twitter that tracks and retweets tagged sightings of the webslinger. It’s as close as she’s going to get to live updates and at this point she’ll take what she can get.</p><p>Too bad it doesn’t seem like enough.</p><p>So she resorts to something else. Reddit to be specific. The one thing Spider-man has more than the naysayers are the almost unnaturally passionate followers. ‘Fans’ seems too light a word for the bowels of the internet Clarke finds herself sifting through. It must be a testament to Spider-man’s skill, then, that his life is still shrouded in relative anonymity. It's rather surprising considering how much of the news pays attention to him. Unfortunately that doesn’t leave her with a leg to stand on, so she throws out some nets and hopes for the best.</p><p>Her phone pings, and Clarke reaches for where it's rested beside her laptop. She leans back in her seat, taking her phone and the now tepid cup of coffee with her.</p><p>A twitter notification. Clarke swipes open her lock screen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>@HJlock92: #spideysighting at the corner of 23rd street and madison square park #spiderman #iwasthisclose</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Underneath is a photo, and for a phone picture it's not half bad. Well, the lighting is horrible and the motion blur definitely leaves something to be desired, but the point is made. Spider-man is mid swing, arm stretched and body flexed, and it’s hard not to be impressed by the athleticism.</p><p>For a moment, Clarke considers packing up shop. Relocating closer on the off chance that perhaps luck will be on her side twice. To be honest, though, Clarke is sure any and all luck she had for the year let alone the month was rightfully used up a couple weeks ago. Besides, by the time she’d make it, Spider-man would be long gone anyway.</p><p>Clarke locks her phone, places it face down on the small table she’s occupied since 10 o’clock,  and returns to her computer. There are notifications there too, piled up in the corners of her screen. Mostly work reminders she’s set herself, Clarke humors the brief and admittedly unprofessional  thought of ignoring them. At least for the moment, but duty wins out.</p><p>It’s there that Clarke spots it nestled among the notifications of her reddit post and it stands out if only for its brevity.</p><p>Two words and a time: Williamsburg bridge 7pm</p><p>The username is a combination of a seeming random assortment of letters and numbers and the profile lacks everything but a profile image, which is simply the spider that occupies New York’s masked hero’s chest. It’s a dime a dozen this far into Spider-man’s subreddit, but it gives her pause.</p><p>A part of her can’t help but believe it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It starts to get dark by 4:45pm and Clarke packs up what little work she still has spread out over the coffee shop table into her arms by the time it hits 5:30. It’s not far from the apartment she shares with Raven, so she stops in, eats something more than just a chocolate croissant, and then feeds Larry his dinner.  Afterwards, Clarke finishes organizing her notes and leaves.</p><p>She’s not stupid, or so Clarke tells herself with her hands dug deep into her winter jacket as the elevator makes its way down to the foyer. Her fingers toy with the the ring of keys in her right, running the pad of her thumb over the teeth and if Raven had been given the opportunity, Clarke feels she would have a certain set of choice words for her.</p><p>The bus takes 3rd Avenue down to the lower east side and traffic is, miraculously, light. She gets off near the amphitheater, allowing herself the few moments to prepare as she takes the bikeway towards Williamsburg bridge. Only a couple of people wander the park this late at night, taking in the scenery all prettied up with lights.</p><p>Clarke walks by at first, allowing herself just one sidelong glance, and when nothing seems out of place she backtracks. She stands a little ways back by the fence of the tennis courts, enough to hear the wind as it wafts in from over the East River, and waits.</p><p>She doesn’t account for the cold. With December right around the corner, the breeze doesn’t so much bite as it tears through her winter clothing this close to the water. Clarke loses count of how many times she checks her watch. Time stretches past 7 o’clock in half-hour minutes that makes Clarke think her watch has gone haywire. It’s old, a relic from back when her father was still alive and it occupied his wrist rather than her own, but this is ridiculous.</p><p>7:05pm</p><p>7:08pm</p><p>7:12pm</p><p>7:15pm is here and gone and the tips of Clarke's fingers are halfway to numb. She tries to tell herself it's nothing to get worked up over. It was a long shot at best, a random reddit post by some stranger, honestly she’s lucky she’s not stuffed in some trunk on her way to Canada. But it’s been some time since she’s been this gloriously duped, and Clarke lets out a huff of air.</p><p>She’s alive if a little cold so it’s not a complete and utter loss. Silver lining and all that, like her dad used to say.</p><p>It doesn’t make her feel any less disappointed.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So...what?” Raven says, her need to understand just barely overriding the incredulousness written clearly across her face. She pushes aside her cup of coffee, folding her arms over the cafe table separating them, and levels Clarke with her best you’re-so-stupid-it-hurts-me stare. “Please don’t tell me you’re going back.”</p><p>“It crossed my mind.”</p><p>Raven rolls her eyes so hard her head follows. “Yeah, let’s give those criminals one more chance because they’re worth it.”</p><p>“Your sarcasm is showing,” Clarke says as an attempt to de-escalate the situation. “You know, this is exactly why I didn’t tell you.”</p><p>“I would’ve strapped you to a chair,” Raven responds, and Clarke can't tell if she's joking.</p><p>Clarke switches gears. “I’m fine.” The softness makes Raven stop mid rant, though experience keeps the apprehension from disappearing completely. “And I know it was stupid, believe me, but there’s no progress without risk.”</p><p>“Don’t let Kane drive you into the ground because of impossible expectations, Clarke. No one has been able to get in touch with Spider-man, and if the last two years have been any indicator, I don’t think he’s going to start now. Honestly, I think that’s for the best. It’s not worth putting yourself at risk.”</p><p>“I can’t just give up on this, Raven--”</p><p>“But you could. You could tell Kane to shove it up his ass and if he doesn’t take you seriously you can take you and your amazing ass journalism skills elsewhere.”</p><p>“No matter where I go they won’t have half the readership as the Ark--” Raven groans but Clarke continues, “--and that was the whole purpose of this. To reach as many people as possible about the shit that’s taking over our country and if that means selling myself out for Spider-man photos and a couple of articles then fine. He’s all over the news anyway. Social media practically stalks him which means my job is almost already done.”</p><p>Raven sighs, dropping her head into her hands. “Then why are you taking stupid risks?”</p><p>“If I’m going to do it, I’m not going to half ass it.”</p><p>“And full assing it means going to some secluded area in the middle of the night--”</p><p>“It was 7pm, Raven, and--”</p><p>“<em>In the middle of the night,</em>” Raven repeats with emphasis, lifting her head up to lock eyes with Clarke, “to potentially meet some superhero based on one rando reddit post with no credibility. Clarke, you drive me insane.”</p><p>“I won’t, okay?” Clarke says finally, and Raven closes her mouth, lips pursed. It feels like the entire cafe is watching them, and Clarke lowers her eyes to the napkin currently being worried away between her fingers. Raven is right, or maybe just the right amount of rational. “I won’t go back.”</p><p>Raven leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Good.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She goes back.</p><p>Of course she does. Call it gut instinct, or maybe just stubbornness, but Clarke knows when (and when not) to trust the fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach. For better or worse. It’s helped her more than it hasn’t and well, the odds are in her favor.</p><p>The East River park is almost the same as yesterday, bare besides the occasional late night wanderer on their way to the bus stop. They don’t pay her any attention when she follows the chain-link fence of the tennis courts down towards the waterside, the Williamsburg Bridge on her right. The weather isn’t better, and it’s that type of cold where the promise of snow is a tangible feeling, and Clarke hopes for her own sake that it doesn’t get worse than this.</p><p>She walks five minutes or so down the East River Promenade as a distraction, a way to calm the nerves she feels as 7pm comes and goes once again, and then turns back around. The Williamsburg Bridge and all its lights looms some distance away, but as Clarke gets closer, things shrink back down to size. As she crosses under the overpass, the sound of cars and buses and pedestrian traffic emitting this strangely comforting hum, she’s surprised to find a small pocket of peace.</p><p>That is, until a shape drops down in front of her from the rafters above and she has to effectively stop herself from screaming her head off.</p><p>“Shit,” she swears instead, the word soft despite the feeling it’s backed with. Her left hand clutches at the front of her peacoat, fabric bunched in her fist. She unclenches in stages.</p><p>She can’t say she’s never seen Spider-man in person before after that moment a couple weeks ago, but for some reason this feels like the first.</p><p>The darkness obscures in that tricky way it does sometimes and the black of the suit disappears against the shadows of the Williamsburg bridge as the figure rises to his full height, leaving only the red truly visible. These sharp angles and that vibrant and unmistakable widow silhouette.</p><p>The figure shifts and Clarke takes a step back. Spider-man stills.</p><p>He’s… shorter than Clarke expected. Perhaps only an inch or so taller than herself, body built like a dancer’s, lithe and yet deceptively strong. The photos don’t really do the presence justice.</p><p>“You’re late,” Clarke says before she can stop herself.</p><p>“An unfortunate occupational hazard,” Spider-man replies, voice soft and almost teasing, but Clarke is too preoccupied by the lightness of its timbre. Undoubtedly feminine, and just the sound of it brings that moment two weeks ago back into focus. “Though I try my best to be punctual.”</p><p>“You’re a woman?” Clarke asks, unable to mask the surprise, and she knows how stupid and insensitive that sounds out loud, but…</p><p>Spider-woman’s head tilts. “It’s how I define myself, yes,” Spider-woman says, “and you are?”</p><p>“My name’s Clarke Griffin,” she answers, and it’s professional despite how self conscious she feels when in reality it should be the opposite. She isn’t the one trapezing about New York in red and black spandex, and yet, somehow, face to face with this person she feels awfully small. “I work at the Ark.” Clarke pauses. “You haven’t told me yours.”</p><p>“Spider-man,” the woman says, and Clarke can hear the smile in it. Somewhere behind that mask, something small and gentle and warm. “Spider-woman as my friends like to call me. Or at least they would if I had any friends.”</p><p>The corner of Clarke’s lips quirk, and she tries to stop it but the resulting grin is inevitable. Her grasp tightens on the tape recorder in her hand and oh. This is bad. “That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Clarke glances around and the East River Promenade is still, thankfully, empty, but she knows first hand how fragile peace can be in a city. She takes out the recorder, holds it in plain sight, and Spider-woman’s eyes dart to it.</p><p>“I have a couple questions for you, if you don’t mind,” Clarke says. When all Spider-woman does is stand there, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, Clarke decides there’s no harm in jumping right in. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”</p><p>“About?”</p><p>Clarke gestures to the whole of her and Spider-woman glances down. Humoring, Clarke realizes, and Clarke holds the stare when Spider-woman looks back up.</p><p>“I didn’t think it was something that needed mentioning,” Spider-woman says. “People will make their own assumptions about what I am, and who am I to tell them no.”</p><p>“Them being wrong doesn’t bother you?”</p><p>“It doesn’t affect my ability, so no. It’s of no importance to me what people assume.”</p><p>Clarke watches her for a moment, studying the language held between the slope of her shoulders, in the posture of her spine. From what she had seen on the news, Clarke hadn’t been expecting this--this sophistication. Half the news outlets frame Spider-man--<em>Spider-woman</em> as some masked vigilante, causing more trouble than not, and while Clarke wouldn’t trust the news as far as she could throw it, you hear things often enough that sometimes it rubs off.</p><p>She finds it couldn’t be farther from the truth.</p><p>“You’re playing a dangerous game.”</p><p>The words catch her off guard and Clarke shakes her head minutely. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“Your work on Dante Wallace,” Spider-woman elaborates. “You are aware he has friends in high places.”</p><p>“I’m not afraid of him.” But Clarke narrows her eyes. “Is that a threat?”</p><p>“No,” and it comes out succinct and blunt enough that Clarke trusts its sincerity. Spider-woman shifts. “I was hoping to propose a deal.”</p><p>“With me?”</p><p>A slight nod. “Yes.”</p><p>“You’re the superhero here. You think there’s things I have that you don’t already know?” Clarke takes another look at the person in front of her. “If that’s the case you’re doing a worse job than I thought.”</p><p>“We all play to our strengths,” is Spider-woman’s curt answer. There’s something of a pause and then: “It’s not information I need.”</p><p>“I’m not sure I follow.”</p><p>“Dante Wallace has too much of this city in the palm of his hand that he’d be made a martyr before a villain. I can’t do anything until the people realize exactly the kind of man he is.”</p><p>“So you want me to, what?” And Clarke lets the question hang. “Slander his reputation?”</p><p>“It’s not slander if it’s the truth.”</p><p>“No, but to his supporters? To the people he surrounds himself with? It might as well be. And in this business there’s a special place in hell for journalists who run slander campaigns for New York’s finest.”</p><p>“Nothing good happens all at once,” Spider-woman states, voice calm and infuriatingly level. “I’m willing to wait for it, however long it takes, and piece by piece I know it’s possible. The people just need somewhere to look.”</p><p>Clarke purses her lips. “And what will I get in return?”</p><p>This gives Spider-woman pause. “What would you like?”</p><p>Clarke thinks and nothing springs immediately to mind. There are stupid things. Better pay, an apartment that stays warm throughout the winter... A reliable commute to work. None of which Spider-woman can help her with. But as she stares something pops to mind. “A photo or two, maybe?”</p><p>The wind catches a stream, this cold gust that makes her eyes water and Clarke turns her face against it. Spider-woman does nothing and simply waits it out. “That’s all?”</p><p>“Perhaps on a semi-consistent basis?” Clarke says, blinking. “Purely for work purposes, I promise. You’re in high demand these days.”</p><p>“Staged photographs?” Spider-woman muses out loud. “You would be alright with that?”</p><p>“Not staged, simply consensual. It gives you a say in what’s put out into the world.”</p><p>Spider-woman lets out this huff of quiet, almost laughter, turning away. Clarke follows her line of sight, noticing the small group of young adults meandering down the street. She looks back.</p><p>“So?” Clarke starts.</p><p>"You have yourself a deal," Spider-woman says with a short nod, and when the resulting silence hangs between them, she turns to leave.</p><p>“How will I find you?” Clarke asks, tripping over herself as she reaches out to stop the receding figure. Her fingers briefly graze the smooth, ridged fabric of the suit before Spider-woman pulls away. Clarke lowers her hand. “Contrary to popular belief you are very difficult to get in touch with.”</p><p>“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”</p><p>“Same time next week, then?”</p><p>Spider-man’s hands tense, fingers folding into a loose fist before relaxing at her side. “Sure.”</p><p>“Do you mind if I…?” and Clarke digs through her bag, pulling out her camera. She holds it up. “To make it official.”</p><p>Spider-woman moves a pace away, spine straightening, but after a second thought she gives a small shake of her head. “Go ahead.”</p><p>Clarke mutters a quiet thank you and raises the scope of the camera to her eye. Bits of light from the nearby parkway and walkway along the bridge shine down through the scaffolding and it catches the small raised details spread out like webs along the suit.</p><p>“Could you...” Clarke begins to say, words trailing away as Spider-woman raises her arm, aiming towards the nearest leverage point. The webbing releases with a sharp <em>thwip</em>, and Spider-woman wraps it around her wrist for stability.</p><p>She raises a hand in mock salute, pausing as if to allow Clarke the opportunity, and Clarke doesn’t hesitate. The shutter flutters, clicks, and it feels too easy.</p><p>“Until next time.”</p><p>And then she’s gone.</p><p>In the resulting silence, the strong pace of her heart doesn’t become noticeable until the silence outside matches the silence inside. She stares out into the dark, her mind reaching for something stable, and the first thing she can think of is the picture sitting quietly in her camera memory. So she pulls it up and sure enough, it exists.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She writes on the bus ride home, frantic thoughts scribbled into the little notepad she keeps in her bag for this very reason. One page turns into five somewhere between the park and downtown, and when the bus stops in front of her building, she keeps her index finger marked between the pages. She has too much residual energy so she takes the stairs, unaffected by the way it leaves her breathless by the third floor.</p><p>Raven isn’t home, so Clarke grabs her laptop from her room and sets up at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, her notes and the cursor of her word document. The words come easily.</p><p>Clarke falls asleep at 3am and it isn’t so much a gradual occurrence as it is a sudden happenstance. In partial thanks to the exhaustion built up over the week and the sudden influx of adrenalin from last night’s conversation, she wakes up four hours later to her alarm, shooting up from where she had been sprawled out over the kitchen table. A blanket slips from her shoulders and this bright and colorful sticky note stands out stuck to the back of her hand.</p><p><em>there’s lunch for you in the fridge (p.s. take care of yourself please)</em>, is written out in Raven’s small, slanted script and Clarke peels the paper from her hand with this small exasperated smile. She sticks it to the table and then stands.</p><p>Her back aches but it’s the farthest thing on her mind as she hurriedly goes through the motions of her morning routine. Shower, coffee, and a little snack she packs to tide her over until lunch, and it allows her mind to wander. It drifts to the image still saved on her camera and it lingers in the back of her mind for the duration of her commute to work. The moment she enters the Ark, however, it’s already front and center.</p><p>“Clarke!” the secretary calls out the second her foot is through the door, waving her closer. There’s stacks of this morning’s paper for the taking on the edge of the counter and a familiar image of Spider-man is front and center.</p><p>She reads the title--the headline she must’ve forgotten to revise. In bold typeface it reads Is No Man. Underneath her name stares back at her.</p><p>“Kane wants to see you,” the secretary tells her, ignoring the phone next to her currently ringing off its hook. She has this almost giddy expression, and she smiles up at Clarke from behind her desk. “He’s in his office.”</p><p>“Okay,” Clarke manages, but there’s no further explanation. The secretary shoos her away, finally plucking the phone from it’s cradle.</p><p>Clarke doesn’t bother with dropping off her things. She takes the elevator to the sixth floor and then the right hallway towards Kane’s office. The frosted window blurs most from view, but the morning light streams in through the eastern windows. She knocks lightly before entering, pushing the door open like one would rip off a bandaid. Kane glances up out of habit at the sound, but his attention returns to his work momentarily.</p><p>“How are you this morning, Clarke?” he asks without looking up.</p><p>“Well, thank you.” It’s a lie. She still feels exhausted, but her posture is impeccable and she hopes the makeup does its job.</p><p>“I don’t know how you do it,” Kane begins after a moment. He puts his pen down and looks up for good. “But you continue to surprise me and that deserves acknowledgement.”</p><p>He takes a breath. “As promised, the Tuesday and Thursday front section current events A2 column is yours to do with how you see fit and will continue to be so long as these photos remain a staple component in our newspaper. Keep it clean, keep it professional, keep it under 600 words, and we’ll have no problems.” His attention returns to his work. “That is it Ms. Griffin. Have a great afternoon.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I can’t believe you did it,” Wells says over lunch and it doesn’t surprise Clarke the news is everywhere. Especially when said news has her name attached to it, but at the very least Wells waits until they’re seated with food.</p><p>“I got lucky.”</p><p>“When it comes to you, Clarke, it’s never luck.” Wells picks up his sandwich and takes a bite. He finishes chewing before continuing, setting aside his steak and cheese. “More like unwavering persistence.”  </p><p>“Thank you, I’ll take that as a compliment,” Clarke says, avoiding eye contact. She pinches a fry between her fingers, measures its weight, and then pops it into her mouth.</p><p>“What was she like?”</p><p>Clarke takes her time to chew, swirling the straw in her glass of iced tea. She finds it difficult to put a finger on the exact definition of character based off a 5 minute deal negotiation, but one thing’s for sure.</p><p>“She’s real.”</p><p>Wells lets out a soft snort. “Well yeah, of course she is.”</p><p>Clarke rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”  She glances up and Wells ticks an eyebrow upward. “Genuine,” she states. “She had things to do and places to be and I was fortunate enough to get what I did.”  </p><p>“And that’s it?” Wells asks. “Hit and quit it as they say? You had a literal gold mine in the palm of your hands.”</p><p>Clarke holds her tongue, because it’s not a lie if she doesn’t say anything. “You know I don’t like the limelight.”</p><p>Wells purses his lips.</p><p>“In moderation,” Clarke emends. “And for the right reasons.”</p><p>“Okay.” It's placating, and Wells picks up his sandwich again.</p><p>The sound of sirens rises above the acoustic coffee house playlist, and both Wells and herself turn to look out the large front windows of the shop.  A car speeds by, tires peeling as it takes the next right. On its heels not seconds later is the black and red blur of Spider-woman. She’s there and gone in milliseconds, taking the corner with a nearly unfathomable gracefulness, and the after image remains even as the bright lights of the police trail behind.</p><p>“On second thought,” Wells mumbles halfway through a bite. He wipes his mouth with his paper napkin, getting rid of the mustard stain at the corner of his mouth. A couple other customers have gotten up from their seats to peer out the window. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t.”</p><p>Clarke blinks, breathing in. “I don’t know about that.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Where you off to?” Raven asks, eyeing her from the couch. Clarke tries not to make it conspicuous as she stuffs her notebook and camera into her bag.</p><p>“I’m having trouble concentrating,” Clarke explains, keeping it purposefully vague. “So I’m going to grab a coffee from Toni’s and take a walk.”</p><p>“At 6:30 on a Thursday?”</p><p>“Sounds like the perfect time to me.”</p><p>Raven narrows her eyes, but before long they return to the television. “Be careful.”</p><p>Clarke shoulders her bag. “I always am.”</p><p>“Liar!” Raven calls out after her as Clarke makes her way to the door. Clarke turns to glare and Raven sticks out her tongue.</p><p>Toni’s is just around the block. A small hole in the wall coffee shop that boasts only five bar seats and a table for two by the front window. She orders a large and spends a couple minutes extra minutes up on a stool scrolling through her phone. Clarke’s halfway done her drink by the time she gets up and leaves.</p><p>She takes sips as she walks, finishing up the last bit of coffee still remaining by the time the amphitheater comes and goes. The Williamsburg bridge stretches across the East River just up ahead and unconsciously her pace turns brisk.</p><p>She hears it the moment she passes underneath. This quiet whoosh among the river breeze, and this time around she knows what to expect. A black shape, long limbed and graceful, but even then, knowing, it still catches her off guard. There’s this short dull thud as Spider-woman’s feet hit the ground somewhere behind her and she jumps, whirling. This time she holds her tongue.</p><p>“Didn’t think you’d be back,” are the first words that escape, and she’s unable to curb the underlining accusatory tone before it stumbles out of her mouth.</p><p>Spider-woman brushes dirt from her suit and doesn’t acknowledge it. “We made a deal didn’t we?” Spider-woman says softly and it eases the stiffness in Clarke’s neck and shoulders somewhat.</p><p>“It’s one things to say you’re going to do something. To follow through, though?”</p><p>“I’m a woman of my word.” Spider-woman says, looking up, idly fixing the fabric around her fingers.</p><p>“Good.” Clarke says after a moment, lifting up her chin. “I hope you mean it.”</p><p>There’s this almost imperceptible twitch of Spider-woman’s mouth behind the mask.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarke watches the lights, the numbers as they tick down from one second to the next. From 5 to 4, and Clarke steps back to let someone squeeze past her on the sidewalk, and then finally the light changes.</p><p>“Clarke, are you listening?”</p><p>“Yes, mom, I’m listening,” Clarke says as she jogs across the crosswalk. She presses the phone closer to her ear and tries to drown out the white noise surrounding her--all the people passing her by.</p><p>“You’re doing some amazing work honey, you really are. I’m just worried is all. Your father was big into activism and... all that, and it ended up giving him so much trouble.”</p><p>“I can take care of myself,” Clarke mutters, keeping up the brisk pace and she’s able to make it time before the bus pulls away from the sidewalk. She smiles at the driver as she boards.</p><p>“I know, I know.” Abby sighs. “I just worry.”</p><p>“We talked about this,” Clarke teases, picking an empty row of seats near the back. She pulls her bag into her lap. “You’re going to give yourself wrinkles.”</p><p>Abby groans, but between the exasperation and love it turns into a laugh. Clarke smiles in the silence, studying the lines on her hands, the paint on her nails. And then something red catches her eyes.</p><p>She looks out the window, and it’s an easy thing to pick apart Spider-woman from the crowd. It’s a small group, made up of a parent and child along with the passer-bys who take the time to notice. Their cellphones are out, pointed up into a tree and the balloon it holds hostage. It’s quick and easy work, and Spider-woman plops back onto solid ground within moments.</p><p>The bus lurches.</p><p>“Clarke?”</p><p>“Yeah?” she says, turning in her seat to watch as the bus pulls out into the road. Spider-woman crouches down with an outstretched hand--</p><p>“Are you okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Clarke says quietly, the image down the road turning distant and blurry. “Yeah, I’m fine.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Spider-woman squats beside her, left hand draped over her knee while the other thoughtfully holds her chin as she studies the article and papers Clarke’s spread out between them on the ground, and it's difficult not to think that she’s a ball of yarn away from being a detective in those murder mystery shows Raven likes to watch on night time television. It sends this rush through her veins, and it feels like that little something she’s been missing.</p><p>At the very least it’s enough for her to put aside the niggling feeling courtesy of their current surroundings. An alley in between a couple commercial buildings. Less out in the open than the park, Spider-woman had said.</p><p>“It’s not much,” Clarke says, growing more self conscious as the seconds pass. Spider-woman studies it like a map, scrutinizing detail after detail. The mask gives away next to nothing and that’s probably the point, but that doesn’t make Clarke hate it any less in this moment. But she waits.</p><p>And waits.</p><p>“What do you think?”</p><p>Spider-woman’s head rises, the eyes of the mask widening from narrowed slits as her attention shifts and Clarke’s spine straightens subconsciously.</p><p>“This is thorough work,” Spider-woman clarifies, looking back to the previous week’s article and the notes to go along with it. “It was more than I was expecting.”</p><p>Clarke's shoulders relax. “Thank you.”</p><p>“It’s well deserved,” Spider-woman says, glancing back at the assortment of papers for one last perusal. “You’re an impressive journalist.”</p><p>Clarke’s heart thumps, and she glances away, keeping her eyes forward. She feels the prickling of a blush, a flood of warmth to her cheeks, and it’s unnerving how nice it feels. That comforting second presence and she scooches incrementally closer.</p><p>“You’re doing a good job too, you know.”</p><p>Out of the corner of her eye she sees Spider-woman glance towards her.</p><p>It lasts only a second.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Toni’s again?” Raven asks, watching from the edge of the kitchen.</p><p>“Yeah,” Clarke says, dropping a pinch of fish food into Larry’s tank. He swims towards the surface and eats one by one. Satisfied, Clarke turns and quickly gathers her bag. “I think it’s the atmosphere. It helps me focus.”</p><p>“Not the great coffee?”</p><p>“That helps too,” Clarke says with a slight smile. She holds her bag to her chest. “I’ll catch you later, alright?”</p><p>“I’ll probably be asleep,” Raven says, shrugging. “Work early in the morning.”</p><p>“Goodnight then.”</p><p>Raven nods. “Careful out there.”</p><p>It already feels like a habit as Clarke steps out into the city, breathing in the cold evening air. It burns her nose a little, but she squares her shoulders, and walks. A hot vanilla macchiato is purchased and then, before she leaves, she turns back around and buys another.</p><p>If Spider-woman doesn’t like it, well, at the very least it’ll keep her hands warm.</p><p>The thank you she receives (their hands brushing in the exchange. Spider-woman’s soft words of gratitude) is more than worth it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s a good thing it’s dark, though Clarke wonders how much that actually matters. Details are lost in dim overhead lights, but there’s no mistaking Spider-woman as she stumbles into their secluded alley, the usual practiced silence gone as she lands shakily off the tail end of a swing. It makes the labored breathing all the more apparent.</p><p>Clarke attempts to swallow the uneasy feeling back down into her stomach. “Can I... get you anything?”</p><p>Spider-woman wheezes, pressing a hand to her side. She rests her weight back against the brick and slowly slides down until she’s seated. “Give me a moment,” she says, head bowed, and her voice sounds scraped raw. “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“Yeah…” Clarke looks around, but her eyes keep going back in glances. It doesn’t feel like something she should see, and maybe, sparingly, it’ll remain in pieces.</p><p>There’s a pained grunt and a forced exhale, and Spider-woman lifts her head. She lets it fall back and Clarke watches the calculated rise and fall of her breathing until the need to move is impossible to ignore.</p><p>And Clarke does so slowly, moving her bag to her lap when she squats down a couple feet away. She rifles through it, and is happy to find a still relatively full bottle of ibuprofen.</p><p>“No,” Spider-woman states at the first sound of rattling, and Clarke hates the fact that she can’t tell if she’s watching.  “It’s nothing.”</p><p>“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” Clarke replies. She closes her fingers around the bottle, squeezing, but then forces herself to relax.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Spider-woman growls. She forces herself to sit up and even in this washed out lighting, Clarke can see the way her body shakes. “Let’s get on with it.”</p><p>Clarke purses her lips. She pulls the bag over her head and sets it aside, closing the distance by plopping herself just a foot away. She pretends not to notice the way Spider-woman stiffens at the proximity.</p><p>“It can wait,” she says, and Spider-woman doesn’t offer a rebuke. Clarke stares off at the opposite building, the dirty brick wall and rusty fire escape. The air is chilly but motionless and tucked next to Spider-woman Clarke finds it’s not so bad. Things could be worse.</p><p>Clarke twiddles her thumbs. “What do you do for fun?”</p><p>It’s a moment or two before Spider-woman responds. “I don’t really have much time for fun these days,” she answers quietly.</p><p>“There has to be something.” Clarke says, dipping her head to get a better angle. “Superheroing can’t be your entire life.”</p><p>Spider-woman lifts a shoulder in a weak shrug. The movement is quickly followed by an involuntary wince of pain.</p><p>“Really? Absolutely nothing?”</p><p>And Spider-woman’s head tilts forward, but it doesn’t hide much. She takes a breath. “I write.”</p><p>Clarke blinks owlishly. “You write?”</p><p>“Fiction.”</p><p>Out of all things, Clarke hadn’t expected that. Something physical or fighting related, sure. It’s easy to imagine Spider-woman doing cross-fit in some lofty high brow apartment. After all, she does worse every day. The image that comes to mind instead is surprisingly intimate, and it’s just a glimpse, but her imagination runs wild. Clarke can picture the back of her head and the hint of her skin underneath a soft sweater, long legs covered by a comfy pair of joggers and bare feet left to fend for themselves, curled up in an uncomfortable chair at some small kitchen table. There’d be a warm cup of coffee next to a yellow pad of paper and--</p><p>Clarke gives a small shake of her head. “We should share notes sometime,” she offers, pushing aside her thoughts, and it’s half a joke. Journalism and fiction couldn’t be farther from each other, but as the seconds pass and a quiet pause fills the space between them, Clarke can’t help but think about how much she'd like to.</p><p>Spider-woman focuses on her knees, trailing a finger over raised embellishments, and Clarke listens to the silence and hopes it sounds a little bit like a possibility.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The rain starts early and it makes the subway to work packed tighter than usual. Clarke holds on to the rail, elbow tucked in close to her body, and reads the morning news on her phone. Compared to yesterday it’s relatively quiet. Stocks are falling, gas prices are on the rise, and FOX is raving about Dante Wallace’s projected 2020 reformation policy. Fortunately, the news is the only bad part of her morning.</p><p>She gets to work on time despite the traffic, sets herself down in her cubicle with a cup of breakroom coffee and for once it doesn’t taste half bad. It lasts her through most of the morning, and she only returns just after eleven for a refill before lunch.</p><p>That’s where Wells finds her.</p><p>“Clarke,” he says, dodging around the breakroom tables. John scoots in his chair. “Have you seen the news?”</p><p>“No?” Clarke lowers her cup of coffee and sets it aside on the counter to dig for the phone in her pocket. The notification is the first thing she sees.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Emergency Alert</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Evacuation of the immediate areas surrounding Grand Central Station. For more information, including routes, please...</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Clarke frowns, swiping past the lock screen. Twitter is open a second later and her hands begin to shake.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>@nycgov: Unknown attack on 42nd ST #GrandCentralStation. Law enforcement enroute. Please follow state wide emergency protocol.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>@alertNYC: An armed masked figure was last spotted near #GrandCentralStation. Follow all safety precautions.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>@JdoubleU43: #spideysighting she’s here! img0317.jpg/PTKGHYSVCR  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The image attached makes her hands sweat and she swipes out of the app.</p><p>“Clarke--” Wells starts, jogging to catch up, and she can hear the little inkling of panic in it as he trails behind. “What are you doing? You heard the news and Kane’s already sent out the memo. Clarke-”</p><p>Clarke takes her bag from the floor and places it on her desk, reaching for the essentials. She checks her camera, switches the lens, and then packs it into her bag. “What do you think I’m doing?”</p><p>“I’m not an idiot.”</p><p>“I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“Clarke--”</p><p>She doesn’t give him the time. “I’ll call you, I promise,” she shouts, dashing out into the hall, losing Wells to the droves as they begin to evacuate the premises. Clarke takes the stairs down into the main lobby and then she’s out the doors.</p><p>The difference in the air is immediate. Stuffy from the fog and continuing rain. Cruisers and Swat vehicles fly down 39th and against the rational part of her brain, Clarke follows. Slow at first until her legs pick up speed. By 42nd street, her throat burns, and she stops among the fleeing throng of people in front of Grand Central Station as they try to pass her by.</p><p>Clarke sees her then.</p><p>The bright red spider symbol is a shock against the gray of afternoon, but it’s the mechanical fist currently locked around Spider-woman’s throat that draws Clarke’s attention. Attached is a broad figure that towers a foot over her, the dark carbon fiber armor across his body and face glinting from the lights of the police. </p><p>She reaches for her camera, pulling it from her bag and bringing it to her eye. Through the scope she tries to focus, and when she does, the shutter clicks.</p><p>The figure’s head turns, and Clarke’s blood runs cold.</p><p>Spider-woman is thrown side with enough force to indent the side of Grand Central Station, and the sound echoes in Clarke’s ears like a crack of thunder. Spider-woman picks herself up from the rubble with a shake of her head, just fast enough to dodge the incoming projectile which embeds itself into the stone wall beside her, but his focus shifts and he turns to look at Clarke.</p><p>The world shrinks as Clarke zeroes in, the sleek black helmet catching the surrounding lights.</p><p>“Run!” someone shouts, but her heart is in her throat and her legs refuse to move.</p><p>“RUN!”</p><p>She picks up her feet and they feel like lead, but by god does she move. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the figure heft the large object from his back and there’s this short, sharp ticking sound as the air grows hot and thick.</p><p>It releases in a blast, and the immeasurable heat is an instant presence, but Clarke doesn’t feel it. At least not the brunt of it. She smells the singed scent of skin, the heat picking at her cheeks, and her stomach rolls, but thankfully she isn’t given the time to process the thought. A body, familiar in its warmth, knocks her aside, arms closing around her and pulling her in close as the momentum of the collision takes them skidding across the pavement.</p><p>For a moment the only noise is the ringing in her ears. She opens her eyes and the world spins off center, but before she’s ready, Clarke’s tugged back to her feet.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Spider-woman growls, pushing her behind and away. Clarke stumbles backwards. “Get out of here, now.”</p><p>Spider-woman kicks off, using the momentum of a well aimed web shot to launch herself forward back into the fray. Her fist connects with an audible crack, and the figure goes sprawling, hitting the broadside of a police cruiser which brings him to a sudden stop, weapon skittering away. Spider-woman doesn’t waste time.</p><p>She starts with his hands, securing them to the car and then his head, covering it completely with sticky webbing. The swat team on standby converges, swarming forward in riot gear, restraints ready, and Spider-woman steps aside.</p><p>A second later, she takes off.</p><p>And so does Clarke.</p><p>“Ma’am. Ma’am! You can’t--”</p><p>Clarke darts across the road, slipping her camera back into her bag, and in the chaos he doesn’t bother to chase after her. His shouts are lost amidst the noise, drowned under the sirens and the yelling of law enforcement. There’s too many people to corral, and Clarke weaves against the flow, one hand holding onto the strap of her bag, keeping her eyes trained on the superhero as she makes her exit.</p><p>Clarke doesn’t know how she manages to keep up. Her chest aches and her throat is dry, but if there’s one thing she can count on it's her own stubbornness. She keeps Spider-woman in sight as she pushes the hair back from her face, but the wetness causes it to stick to her temples and cheeks and she huffs out a curse and continues.</p><p>She’s out of breath when she finally rounds the corner into a back alley that feels like miles away, and Clarke doubles over, hands on her knees, and coughs.</p><p>It's wet, which makes it hurt worse, and if she doesn’t end up with a cold she’ll count it as a blessing. She swallows tentatively, feeling the sting, but when she straightens, taking a deep breath, she finds Spider-woman just ahead. Suspended upside down from the fire escape, she’s every part the superhero people make her out to be. Distant despite the distance between them.</p><p>Her voice is low. “Why are you here?”</p><p>“I--” Clarke stammers. The cold finally registers now that she stopped moving, and she can feel it all the way to the tips of her toes. “I didn’t mean--”</p><p>“You didn’t mean to do anything,” Spider-woman says, anger seeping into her tone despite the evident restraint. “You took a risk and nearly paid for it with your life.”</p><p>“I--”</p><p>“<em>You have no right,</em>” she snarls, and Clarke flinches at the force of her words. Her heart thuds erratically and it must be the look on her face, because Spider-woman’s eyes widen, the tension in her limbs releasing until her shoulders relax and she brings a hand to cover her face.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers.</p><p>“I can’t save everyone,” Spider-woman says softly, words muffled by her palm, and Clarke closes the distance between them. “I’ve tried and I can’t and I don't--”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Clarke repeats, slipping her fingers around Spider-woman’s hand and pulling it gently away. Clarke searches her face, its shapes and contours, and wonders briefly--</p><p>“You have to take care of yourself.”</p><p>The rain trickles. Flowing down the gutters and pooling out into puddles collected between the cracks of the alley, underneath her skin and in her blood and things run cold for a second. Waterlogged and chilled in mid December, but she focuses on her hands and the minor slit in the fabric. Courage makes her bold, but most importantly warm, and she slips the tips of her fingers under the edge.</p><p>“Promise me,” Spider-woman says, and it comes out stretched thin and nearly broken.</p><p>The mask peels away in inches, and Spider-woman’s throat bobs as it gives way. There’s a myriad of colors along her jaw that indicate a slow healing bruise, but it is the last thing on Clarke’s mind. Wisps of Spider-woman’s hair spill out from under the mask as Clarke pulls it down and away, revealing the delicate curve of her chin and lips and the slope of her nose and softness of her cheeks and--</p><p>“<em>Clarke</em>.”</p><p>Clarke doesn’t say anything back. She watches those lips form her name and she blames it on the adrenaline, on the undercurrent of electricity traveling from point to point and finger to finger. It’s an easy thing to close the gap.</p><p>Her lips are soft, Clarke thinks, but the kiss is softer. A pressure that melts. She feels the tips of Spider-woman’s fingers along her jaw and the bump of her nose as she goes to switch angles, taking Clarke lips in a second kiss that is gentler than the first. Tentative and tender and curious and Clarke meets each eager press of lips with her own.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>i have no idea what im doing. I just want spidey lexa and journalist clarke to kiss.</p><p>also a big super duper thank you to eris223 for looking over this chapter for me! I super appreciate it!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>There are three things Lexa recalls with any sort of fondness. </p><p>The memories packed in a box under her bed. Pictures of her too young with ketchup stains and tucked in her father’s embrace dead to the world. Her mother smiling, their cheeks pressed together and the frame so close to bursting. </p><p>High school and living with Uncle Gus. Puberty and first loves and the awkwardness that comes with it all. That uneven kind of middle ground and the solace found in mutual fumbling. A man who had never married, never had children, and her, newly orphaned and freshly jaded. Uncle Gus was a man of few words, but his smile was the biggest and brightest thing there ever was. </p><p>Costia, and all that she entailed. That otherworldly feeling of finding a little bit of hope among the uncertainty of college life and the changes that threw her world off its axis. The gentleness of her hands and her smile and during a time in Lexa’s life when little else made sense, it proved to be the thing that kept her sane.</p><p>And then there’s this. The rain and the fading call of sirens somewhere far away, but right now the world is one thing: Clarke, and the feeling of her lips. It’s the thought of just one more. That if this is going to be the last bit of humanity she feels in the years to come then what is a minute of weakness among years of strife. Clarke feels like the softness she’s been missing and for once Lexa wants. She wants so much.</p><p>Lexa exhales this sharp breath through her nose and when she finally pulls away, she has a feeling this will stick with her. Her grip relaxes in stages, but she keeps her fingers woven through the drenched strands of Clarke’s hair. </p><p>She keeps them close.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Clarke whispers a second later, and Lexa traces the pinched line of Clarke’s brow with her thumb. Droplets of rain gather on her lashes, travel over the curve of her cheek to her chin. Gravity takes care of the rest. </p><p>Lexa presses her lips together, pulling the mask back down over the lower half of her face, trying and failing to push the feelings swirling high in her chest back down where they belong. The air in her lungs goes stagnant, her breath caught, but after a moment she forces it out. </p><p>She whispers back, “Don’t be.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The rain lessens, but Clarke still spends the bus ride home completely soaked. Luckily there’s hardly anyone here besides herself, and she leans back against the seat, clothes and hair suctioned to her skin. She clutches her bag in her lap, fingers numb from the force of her grip as if that will stop her from touching the tenderness still prickling at her lips. </p><p><em>I have to go</em>, echoes softly in her ear amid the patter of rain.</p><p>By the time she steps off onto the sidewalk a block from her apartment, it stops completely. There’s still a slight breeze and it’s enough to make the five minute walk close to unbearable. She shuffles into the foyer shivering, hands white, and unwraps her fingers from around the strap of her bag to press the button for the elevator.</p><p>Just outside her apartment, she fumbles with her keys, hands trembling from the cold or the left over adrenaline, Clarke can’t tell, but the door swings open before she can even manage to put them into the lock.</p><p>Raven looks furious. “You fucker.”</p><p>Clarke’s body sags, her arms dropping to her sides. She knows the image she must present but she has neither the energy or the patience to care. All she can comprehend is that her bed is only about a hundred more feet away.</p><p>“What were you thinking? Wells called me two hours ago panicking and then all of the sudden I see you on the news right in the middle of it all? I can’t believe--”</p><p>Clarke doesn’t really listen. Not to be rude, the words are merely lost amid the high pitch noise that’s been ringing in Clarke’s ears since this whole thing started. She focuses on the kitchen behind Raven and then the empty hallway towards the bedrooms, pushing away the hair sticking to her temples and cheeks. It feels hard to breathe in, her hands shaking with the movement, and Raven stops abruptly mid rant. Clarke locks eyes with her.</p><p>“Are you okay?” Raven says, voice noticeably softer. Her eyes no longer look like fire.</p><p>The last couple hours are like seconds and years pressed all into one and Clarke stutters out an exhale. She can still smell the remnants of charred skin, but every time she blinks she sees a familiar outline, a sharp jaw and soft lips. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“C’mon,” Raven says, taking Clarke’s arm to lead her inside. She shuts the door behind them, and then goes about helping Clarke from her soaked coat, holding on to it until they both shuffle into the kitchen and she’s able to drape it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Get changed, I’ll get you something warm.”</p><p>Clarke doesn’t need to be told twice. She slips into the bathroom and strips off what’s left of her clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor before stepping under the warmth of the spray. The heat only makes the aches that much more apparent, bringing to the forefront of her mind the bumps and scrapes she hadn’t the mind to acknowledge until now. She ignores them for a little while longer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She ends up falling asleep after getting dressed, face down onto her mussed up bed covers on the pretense of resting her eyes before facing the music known as Raven, and then she just… doesn’t get up. It must be late because when she finally opens her eyes the world outside her window is dark. She swallows as she pushes herself up onto her arms, noticing the dryness and the sting of pain. Her stomach grumbles, empty after only a cup of coffee and half a bagel over eight hours ago. She rolls over until her feet hit the floor.</p><p>Raven is at the table, flipping through various papers in the folder she keeps for her work. Mostly blueprints, and she presses the tip of her pen to her tongue before making a few adjustments on the grid paper. She glances upwards when Clarke doesn’t move from the hallway. </p><p>“You just gonna stand there or what?”</p><p>Clarke slinks into the kitchen, reaching for the half pot of coffee left on the counter. She pours it into a mug and then deposits it into the microwave. It hums loudly when she presses start, the cup rotating in languid circles.</p><p>“You should call Wells,” Raven says. </p><p>Clarke’s head shoots up. “Shit--” and she scrambles over towards the table and the chair her coat is still draped over. </p><p>“I let him know that you were okay,” Raven says, and Clarke looks over. Raven’s face is empathetic, but that just makes Clarke feel worse. “But I know he’d prefer to hear it from you.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Clarke musters, voice rough. </p><p>Raven shrugs, and Clarke stands motionless beside her coat until the microwave beeps. She waits just a second longer, and then finds her phone in the left pocket. Clarke brings it to the counter, placing it face down as she retrieves her mug from the microwave.</p><p>Blowing across the top, the steam disperses before rising again, and Clarke takes her first tentative sip. It tastes bitter like expected, and that’s what makes it comforting. Even still, Clarke places the mug down, grabbing the sugar and a spoon.</p><p>“I was scared,” Raven says out of the blue, and Clarke glances over her shoulder. Raven isn’t looking at her, but her hands have stopped their movements across the paper. “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”</p><p>Clarke turns around, tapping the spoon against the lip and then placing it down. The next sip tastes infinitely better. </p><p>“I know it doesn’t hold a candle to being there but,” and Raven pauses a bit. She twists in her seat and Clarke meets her gaze, settling back against the counter, mug and the warm steam close to her face. “You should’ve seen the news coverage. It was an <em>entire</em> mess.”</p><p>“You know I don’t like the news,” Clarke says with a slight smile. To her surprise, Raven returns it.</p><p>“I know.” Raven shifts in her seat, facing her fully. “Are you okay?” Her eyes search Clarke’s face. “And I mean that both physically and mentally.”</p><p>“I could be worse,” she says, but that answer rewards her with an upward tick of an eyebrow.</p><p>“I feel sore,” Clarke aquieces, fingers tightening around the mug to resist the impulse to pick at the mark stretching over her upper arm and shoulder. She takes a sip of the coffee and savors the warmth of it as it slides down the length of her throat. Her fingers drum against the side of the mug. “What did they show?”</p><p>“Videos posted to social media,” Raven replies. “A lot of it was the aftermath. The wreckage of 49th street and the station. Apparently that guy showed up and just started going to town. But there was one video of you.”</p><p>Clarke’s eyes dart upward and she’s relieved to find Raven lost in her own thoughts. Raven finds her way back soon enough.</p><p>“She must’ve liked the article you wrote,” Raven says, an attempt at a joke, and Clarke doesn’t have to ask who she’s referring to. </p><p>“She’s a superhero,” Clarke says. “It’s her job to help people.”</p><p>“Yeah, but she helped <em>you</em>,” Raven says before trailing off. She looks away to pluck at something under her nails. “And I’m really glad she did.”</p><p>Clarke wants to make light of the sudden heaviness of the situation, but nothing comes to mind quick enough. She takes a slow breath. “Me too.”</p><p>Curiosity gets the better of her later that night. When Wells has been called and things have calmed and the trembling in her hands has settled to something manageable. She pulls up a news app and scrolls through the feed. It doesn’t take long to find the video Raven was referencing, and it’s impossible not to notice the bolded content warning plastered below the embedded video. It doesn’t stop her from pressing play.</p><p>She’s front and center the second the video starts, in the middle of the road with the camera held up to her eye, and even with the noise drowned out by the surrounding chaos, Clarke can hear the shutter flicker, can see the black of the mask as the figure’s head turns in her direction. The video zooms out to the wide angle of the street, and it happens so fast compared to the moment in her memory. But she sees her. </p><p>Spider-woman. </p><p>Reflexes like lightning, she tears across the distance, propelling herself forward. The camera zooms in again, clunky as it tries to follow. All Clarke sees is black and the glint of light off the webbing of Spider-woman’s suit, until the camera pulls away and steadies.</p><p>The camera pauses, focused for a moment on Spider-woman as she unwraps herself from around Clarke, before panning left, following the line of the blast. A swath is cut from the road, a shallow semi-circle. The indent glows red from the heat, but in the cold and rain, it sizzles, cooling rapidly. There’s the briefest moment when the camera focuses on these mangled shapes by the opposite sidewalk and the scent that has lingered in her nose finally finds a source. The video cuts out shortly afterward.</p><p>Clarke’s eyes drop, and she fiddles with the sleeve of her sweater before pulling it up. The skin is red and raw, tiny raised welts and more than a few that have broken and bled from the abrasiveness of the asphalt. Hot to the touch, it stings, but it’s nothing compared to everything else. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The days pass, but the news hasn’t quite moved on, still stuck on the incident and the repercussions being felt by a city in healing. Even Spider-woman disappears for a day, and Clarke doesn’t know what to make of the absence she feels. Luckily, the city sleeps along with her.  </p><p>New York focuses on the recovery, and for once Dante Wallace remains silent. No doubt biding his time to use this tragedy to spur his campaign to the next level, but she’ll take a mini vacation from the constant shit. She works from home for the remainder of the week, Kane’s orders, and it could be worse. </p><p>“The world is going a little crazy, Clarke, I can feel it.”</p><p>“You think so?” Clarke says, only half paying attention as she scrolls through a word document Wells had sent her to proofread. </p><p>“Honey,” Abby says in a tone that suggests Clarke should start running. “You should be the first to agree with me. If I hadn’t seen the news myself I wouldn’t have believed what happened. And to get caught in the middle of it?”</p><p>“Mom,” Clarke replies. “I told you everything was fine.”</p><p>“You can say that, Clarke, but that doesn’t change the fact that you were nearly incinerated by some lunatic in black.”</p><p>“Well, when you put it that way…”</p><p>“Should I come up and visit?”</p><p>“No,” Clarke says, perhaps a little too forcefully. She pulls her eyes from her work, grabbing hold of the phone that had been precariously placed between her cheek and shoulder, and sits up from her slouch, focusing her attention. “Everything’s fine, Mom, I promise. I have the rest of the week off to relax.” Forcefully imposed against her will, she doesn’t add. “Plus work is only going to get busier in the coming weeks. I won’t have much free time to spare.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Abby resigns, and Clarke lets out a quiet exhale. “I don’t need to be told twice. But say the word and I’ll take the ride up.”</p><p>“I appreciate it, Mom.”</p><p>“Mmhm.”</p><p>“I really do.”</p><p>“I guess I shouldn’t worry,” Abby muses out loud, and Clarke can hear the shuffling of paper over the line. “You’ve at least got that superhero wandering around, right? What’s her name again?”</p><p>“Spider-woman?” Clarke’s thoughts turn over, suddenly soft, and this fluttering sensation settles in her stomach. She curls her right hand into a fist, gathering up the loose end of her sleeve in her grasp, and clears her throat. “She’s got more important things to look after than just me.”</p><p>“I’m trying to not worry about you, Clarke. That doesn’t help.”</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“Call me, please. Preferably at least once a week.”</p><p>Clarke rolls her eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”</p><p>“That’s a promise, young lady,” Abby says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”</p><p>“Love you, Mom.”</p><p>The phone goes silent and Clarke pulls it away from her ear to stare blankly at the screen and the list of contacts, and she scrolls through it slowly. Her mom, Raven, Wells, and the main office sprinkled between friends and other coworkers. </p><p>It’s not like Clarke has Spider-woman on speed-dial. Up until now, their meetings had followed a strict schedule--well, as strict as a superhero’s job could allow. Unfortunate occupational hazards aside, Spider-woman was a woman of her word.</p><p>It would be nice, though, Clarke thinks. </p><p>To know how she’s doing. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Wells is too soft to give her the third degree. The moment she plops her stuff down into her cubicle the following Monday the only thing waiting for her is a hug. It surprises the hell out of her to the point where she nearly kicks him in the shin. She stops herself just in time.</p><p>It lasts at least fifteen seconds, if not more, and Clarke pats him on the back.</p><p>When he’s had his fill, he pushes at her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. “I’m still mad at you.” </p><p>“I know,” Clarke says, watching him openly. He purses his lips, as much of a frown as he can muster. “I deserve that.”</p><p>“Is it stupid to ask you not to do it again?”</p><p>Clarke smiles softly. “Probably.”</p><p>Wells sighs, letting her go. He rubs his temples, leaning back to rest his weight against Clarke’s desk, and Clarke takes the moment to slip into her chair. She reaches for her bag, digging through it to pull out her notes and a usb drive she sticks into one of the free ports on her computer.</p><p>“I thought you said you weren’t going to do it.”</p><p>Clarke glances back, waiting for the screen to boot up from sleep. “Do what?”</p><p>“The spider-man thing,” Wells says, gesturing at her vaguely. “I know a Clarke Griffin photo when I see one. I’ve known you for how long now?”</p><p>Clarke turns away, typing in her password, but a frown pinches between her brows before she can stop it. Her fingers hover over the keyboard once the login accepts. “It’s just a pen name,” she explains, lowering them to rest on the keys. It was actually Spider-woman’s idea, to submit the photos using a different name. Kane didn’t mind so long as there were photos in first place, and for a second that tidbit of information almost escapes her, but she makes a quick adjustment. “I thought it would be safer that way.”</p><p>“And, what? Is it the money?” Wells asks. “Weekly Spider-man photos for some extra cash? It doesn’t seem worth the risk. How are you even getting them?”</p><p>“It’s not about the cash.” Clarke lets out a breath, leaning back in her chair. She runs a hand through her hair, scratching. “It was a deal. Kane gave me free reign over the current events column in exchange for them. It seemed like a no brainer to me.” She lowers her hand, rubbing her neck. “And Spider-woman is everywhere, the camera does most of the work.” </p><p>“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” Wells says. “Give yourself more credit.” He blinks, twice, and then looks over, catching Clarke’s stare. “You are at least still getting paid for them right?”</p><p>“Yes, Wells, I’m getting paid,” Clarke says as she swivels in her chair to look at her computer screen. Her eyes briefly scan the various notes and reminders and it feels like forever since she’s been here. “Standard commission, but it’s better than nothing.”</p><p>“I guess.”</p><p>The conversation tapers off, and Clarke lets it, pulling up a window to browse through her work email. Soon enough, there’s another window with the recent news, and twitter in a separate tab, and it’s nice to be truly busy. Or at least feel like it. Work isn’t the same sitting on her couch. Clarke glances left. “Kane’s going to kill you if he sees you standing around.”</p><p>“Shit, you’re right,” Wells says, pushing off from her desk. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, peering over the top of the cubicle to make sure the coast is clear. He looks over to her. “I’ll catch you around, okay?”</p><p>Clarke waves him away. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarke wouldn’t call herself a creature of habit, but when Thursday rolls around, she lets her feet do the thinking. She finds herself at Toni’s and it is slow after work, which means she’s back out into the cold new york weather before she has a chance to be thankful it's gone. The door shuts behind her, the sound of the overhead bell jangling as it closes. The Christmas music, now muffled behind closed doors, is one thing she won’t miss.</p><p>Clarke spots her out by their usual rendezvous, and it’s the first bit of relief she feels in the past week. It blooms low in her stomach, a warmth that spreads upwards towards her throat (this tingling in her lips), and she tells herself not to think. Clarke gets closer and things start to clear. When you know what to look for, even the shadows have shapes, but it’s the red on Spider-woman’s chest that stands out. </p><p>“I didn’t think I’d see you,” Clarke says, just loud enough to be heard, watching as the webbing that keeps Spider-woman suspended lengthens until they’re nearly eye level. Clarke forces herself to stop a couple feet away, and she feels the distance like a pull.</p><p>It’s better this way.</p><p>“I’ve been busy.”</p><p>Clarke cocks her head. “You deserve a break,” she responds, clenching her right hand. There’s no reaction. “Here,” Clarke says, searching through her bag for her notebook, and after some digging, she pulls it out. She flips to the most recent page. “A preview. I thought you might like it.”</p><p>Spider-woman hesitates before taking it, folding back the cover carefully. The subtle definition to her brow underneath the mask relaxes from its frown, the tension fading away. She holds the notebook close to her face, the other hand moving under her chin. </p><p>The steam from the still warm cup of coffee rises, and Clarke averts her eyes from the figure in front of her to watch it, following it upward.  “Do you think they’re starting to take notice?” Clarke asks, studying the clouds.</p><p>It’s a moment before Spider-woman responds. “Yes,” Spider-woman says, continuing to read, “I do.”</p><p>“Slowly,” Clarke comments.</p><p>“Sometimes that’s the best we can do,” Spider-woman says.</p><p>Clarke looks back, Spider-woman’s face partially obscured by the notebook, and lets the tension release from her shoulders. It’s nice to hear. That progress in any respect can and will be slow, but that doesn’t make it not good enough. “Are you…” she starts before thinking better of it, but Spider-woman’s eyes find her.</p><p>She hands over the notebook. “There’s rumors that funds tied directly to Wallace’s reelection campaign have made their way into the hands of Charles Pike.”</p><p>Clarke blinks, reaching for her notebook. “Who?” She tucks it against her chest. </p><p>“Charles Pike,” Spider-woman says, gentle despite its succinct tone. “A mass weapons dealer situated somewhere in New York’s underground. He’s been running circles around the NYPD for the better part of the last few years.”</p><p>“How did you--”</p><p>“We have history.”</p><p>“History?” And Clarke decides not to press. “Do you think there’s any connection to...” Clarke doesn’t elaborate. </p><p>She doesn’t need to.</p><p>Spider-woman exhales. “It’s possible.”</p><p>Clarke steps back, a little bit of breathing room and turns her face away, staring out past the chain-link fence towards the road. If she blinks slow enough she can see it, that gray afternoon soaked in cold rain, so she keeps her eyes peeled. </p><p>“You should lay low,” Spider-woman says. “For the time being.”</p><p>Clarke breathes in to steady the sudden anxiousness she feels. It releases shakily, and  Spider-woman remains a solid point in front of her. She nods.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>"An attempted robbery was cut short earlier this afternoon thanks to quick work from the Brooklyn Police. Eyewitnesses on the scene claim…”</em>
</p><p>Clarke threads her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face and scratching the back of her head. Her left hand taps the tip of her pen against her bottom lip, and it’s a conscious effort not to take it between her teeth and worry. </p><p>“I’m heading out,” Raven says, and Clarke looks up from her work. Raven has a bag packed and slung over her shoulder, a travel mug held in her right hand, and she rests her weight on one leg. She gives a small shake of her head. “You’ve been at work for how long and you’re already stress biting.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Clarke says, pulling the pen away from her mouth. </p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. “Date night?” she redirects, shuffling through her papers.</p><p>Raven nods. “The boyfriend’s company Christmas party is tonight, but I figured it’d be easier to get dressed there than take the subway in heels.”</p><p>“Smart choice.”</p><p>“You know me,” Raven says with a wink.  “Always thinking ahead.”</p><p>She’s out the door not a minute later, her promise to call cut off by the door as it swings shut behind her. Clarke quickly falls back into work, buried under articles and recent public police statements. There’s virtually nothing on Charles Pike no matter what she tries, and honestly she didn’t know why she expected anything less. The seconds pile up into minutes and then steadily into hours, and progress screeches to a halt.</p><p>Clarke stares at her laptop screen, jaw clenched, until the pressure builds and she pushes herself up from the couch with a grunt, wandering in the direction of the bathroom rubbing her temples. Nearly stumbling into the bathroom sink, she opens the medicine cabinet, squinting at the various bottles until she finds the pain medicine Raven keeps for when her leg is bothering her. She shouldn’t miss a few pills, Clarke thinks as she shakes out two into her palm and then recaps the bottle, reshelving it. </p><p>Once out in the kitchen she fills a glass with water and swallows both pills at once, washing them back with a swig. She grimaces as they travel down her throat, intimately aware of their position, and she takes another sip of water to speed along the process. The glass is abandoned to the kitchen sink after she’s done.</p><p>Her bed seems too far away, so she reclaims her spot on the couch, turning down the volume on the television until it’s barely a murmur of noise. When she closes her eyes, letting her weight topple her sideways, it’s the perfect background for her thoughts. Enough to focus on but not comprehend, and Clarke exhales slowly. She picks her feet up, tucking them underneath the pillow on the opposite side and closes her eyes.</p><p>Clarke dreams her apartment is on fire. </p><p>The smoke is an almost tangible feeling, heavy along the floors like molasses, moving in swirls around her legs when Clarke pulls herself from the couch and in circles in her lungs. It’s a series of falls as she stumbles over to the kitchen, catching herself on the back of a chair. A tickle itches at her throat and Clarke attempts to clear it with little success as she pulls herself towards the door.</p><p>The handle is hot to the touch, but somehow that seems irrelevant in the moment, jostling the doorknob until she remembers to unhook the lock and push the door open. The hallway is in flames, the far end of the hall and the emergency exit engulfed by a wall of fire that spreads steadily closer. Tendrils crawl up the other apartment doors, charring the carpet black, and the smell is not unlike that of melting plastic, and Clarke’s stomach could definitely do without.</p><p>She goes in the opposite direction, following the hallway and it seems like the heat does too. Dreamlike, the floor moves underneath her, her feet clumsy as the hallway rotates, but it's the sight of an unmistakable figure at the end of the hall that has her convinced.</p><p>That’s the only explanation. Stressed and desperate for security, of course her mind would conjure up the one person who’s able to give her just that. It’s the safety she feels at the sight of her. All Clarke can think of is the gentleness of her hands and the softness of her mouth, and she would be lying to herself if she said those thoughts were nothing to be worried about, but...</p><p>Lately she’s been awfully good at lying to herself.</p><p>“Spider-woman?” Clarke croaks, vision swimming, and she inhales a cautionary breath. It hurts too much to be a dream. “What’re you…”</p><p>Spider-woman steps forward, there and gone between blinks, and the air lodges itself in Clarke’s throat. This heat is different, of that Clarke is certain, and she finds it wouldn’t be a terrible place to die. </p><p>She coughs violently, and Spider-woman pulls her in. “We have to leave.” </p><p>Clarke doesn’t argue. Spider-woman guides Clarke’s arms around her neck, and it takes a second for the action to register but she locks her hands together. Once secure, Spider-woman bends down and hooks her right arm behind Clarke’s knees, lifting. Clarke doesn't fight it, grip tightening, her face finding the crook of Spiderwoman’s neck and the air seems clearer here.</p><p>The hallway passes by as Spider-woman retraces her steps, the arm curled around Clarke’s shoulder holding her closer as the fire around them grows louder. The creaks and groans of the infrastructure a warning amidst it all. Spider-woman quickens her pace.</p><p>There’s a sharp crack and then a crash followed by a ploom of smoke that spreads outward like the tide, rushing past Spider-woman’s feet. Spider-woman curses softly, and Clarke peers out from Spider-woman’s embrace into the near opaque fog of smoke. Her eyes water.</p><p>Spider-woman takes off at a sprint, picking up speed. “Brace yourself.”</p><p>“What--” but Clarke doesn’t get much further than that. Spider-woman tucks Clarke to her chest, arms the only barrier against the sudden shattering of glass around them as they burst through the third story window. </p><p>The air rushes past, and Spider-woman quickly readjusts her grip, keeping Clarke secure with her left arm while the other stretches out, aiming with pinpoint precision. A quick calculated tug veers them from colliding into the adjacent building, and then another puts much needed distance between them and the unfolding disaster behind them. </p><p>Spider-woman lands a couple blocks away with a grunt, knees bending to take the brunt of the impact, and Spider-woman stands carefully, near silent. Late at night, the small back road is empty, parked cars lined bumper to bumper, the lights of nearby windows off and the shades pulled. When Spider-woman gently places her down on solid ground, pulling away, the cold hits her first and it’s quick to surround her. It slips between the loose knitting of her sweater, around her neck and into her lungs, and she has half a brain to bury back into the warmth that is Spider-woman’s embrace. But something else quickly comes to mind.</p><p>“Larry!” she gasps, eyes wide. </p><p>Spider-woman’s eyes narrow, and the hand on Clarke’s waist keeps her from moving. “Who is Larry, Clarke?”</p><p>Clarke looks up, her hand closing around the one on her waist, grip tight. It doesn’t budge. “My fish.”</p><p>“Your fish?”</p><p>“I have to--”</p><p>“No.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. A second later, however, Spider-woman lets go. “Stay here.”</p><p>Clarke steps back, tilting her head up to watch as Spider-woman launches herself upwards, twisting. A web shoots out from her wrist, securing somewhere out of sight and she pulls herself back the way they came, disappearing around the corner of the street.</p><p>A plume of smoke rises in the distance, and Clarke swallows thickly, mouth dry. She didn’t…</p><p>The last tendrils of haziness from the pills clings to the edges of her mind and it certainly doesn’t help her sense of direction and the darkness makes it downright difficult. She follows the commotion as best she can, blinking against the wind as it pushes against her. Her feet, clad only in thin socks, fare the worst and she seems no closer to her destination by the time the cold has rendered them practically numb. </p><p>She shuts her eyes tight, willing the world back into focus, leaning against the iron rungs of a nearby fence. “Fuck,” Clarke breathes out quietly, feeling an odd mix of hot and cold. A strong shiver runs its course through her body, and she uses the support to lower herself until she’s seated, head between her knees. It’s the best decision she’s made all night.</p><p>Clarke gets up an indeterminate time later, reorienting herself, and her balance seems far more stable than before, her mind a little clearer. With a huff, she takes off again, following the smoke rising above the skyline. It takes less than a minute for her to run into something.</p><p>By some miracle, It just so happens to be exactly who she’s looking for.</p><p>Spider-woman’s hand finds Clarke’s arm, steadying. “Clarke.”</p><p>Words don’t come out, this choked sound forming as a whine in the back of Clarke’s throat. “Oh my god--” and that’s all that escapes before she swallows her feelings down, worry finding the edges of her voice as she reaches out. Clarke’s fingertips graze over the fabric, and her eyes dart between the singed edges of the suit. The burnt fingertips and the patch on Spider-woman’s shoulder that has melted down to the skin, and the cold suddenly becomes less important.</p><p>Spider-woman brushes Clarke’s hand away, instead she holds out a familiar stainless steel thermos, and Clarke stares at it confused before accepting it wordlessly. “Will he be okay in here for now?”</p><p>Clarke looks down at the thermos, unscrewing the lid. The meager light doesn’t help, but she sees Larry peering back up at her safe and sound, a tiny bubble escaping his mouth as he takes a little bit of air. She quickly closes the lid to shut out the cold. “He’s a tropical fish.”</p><p>The words hang, but the relief is instant. It settles high in her chest, swelling until she lets out a breath from deep within her lungs. She stares at the red of the spider stretched across the suit, the spindly limbs that radiate from the center of her chest to her arms… it gives weight to her in the darkness, a tangible focal point, and Clarke holds on to it greedily. </p><p>“Why did you do it?”</p><p>“He was a convenient stop along the way,” Spider-woman says, holding her stare. She lets out a quiet exhale, noticeable only by the way her breath condenses in the air.</p><p>“I…” Clarke starts, eyes darting over the entirety of the figure before her, and for a moment words fail her. “Thank you.”</p><p>Spider-woman nods once, an acknowledgement, but it feels half-hearted.</p><p>“Are you--”</p><p>“Do you have somewhere to stay?”</p><p>The question takes Clarke aback, and she blinks, mouth open, failing to fight back the shiver that courses through her body at a particularly cold gust of wind.  She shakes her head to clear it. “I don’t…”</p><p>It’s an incomplete thought, one that Spider-woman must take as an answer, which it most certainly isn’t, but with the mess that is her mind right now it seems almost impossible to think for longer than a few seconds at a time. It doesn’t help the matter when Spider-woman steps closer, and Clarke stiffens at the proximity. </p><p>If she wants any hope at coherency this is not how she gets it. “I don’t want to bother you,” she redirects.</p><p>“May I see him?” Spider-woman asks instead. Clarke furrows her brow, cautious, but does just that. The thermos passes between their hands and Spider-woman holds it carefully. “Would you like me to take him?”</p><p>“You… What?” Clarke says, trying to wrap her mind around the offer. “Will he be okay?”</p><p>“We’ll find out, won’t we?” Spider-woman says, and Clarke thinks it must be some weird form of humor. It’s the softness of her voice that makes Clarke think otherwise. “Please don’t move.”</p><p>Clarke doesn’t know how long she waits, but she does. By the time Spider-woman returns, the shivering has resurfaced with a vengeance enough to feel uncomfortable. All she can smell is the smoke and the leftover rain from the other day. It sits thick in her throat, but she swallows around it when a familiar outline is framed by the night sky.</p><p>The dismount is clean, a three point landing, but Clarke hears a grunt as she rises.</p><p>“Is he--” Clarke starts, voice heavy as she moves closer. </p><p>“Fine,” Spider-woman finishes for her, shaking out her right arm. “Larry is fine.” Spider-woman drops her arm, straightening. She observes Clarke openly. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“For….?”</p><p>But Spider-woman is already turning around, her back to Clarke as she squats down.</p><p>Clarke opens her mouth, but her mind is suddenly blank. “Is that a good idea?”</p><p>“No,” Spider-woman responds curtly. “But I am past the point of caring.” She glances over her shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”</p><p>Clarke kicks herself into gear, hesitating for only a second before placing a cautionary hand on Spider-woman’s shoulder. The warmth of her seeps, muscles twitching and Clarke barely manages to wind her arms around Spider-woman’s neck just before she stands to her full height, hiking Clarke higher onto her back. </p><p>There’s no time to readjust as Spider-woman moves towards the building on their right. She places a hand high on the bricks, and then the other, and before Clarke realizes it, it’s just them and gravity.</p><p>She scales the side of the building with practice ease even with the extra weight. Clarke squeezes with her knees, any modicum of modesty thrown aside when the alternative is a 20 foot drop that continues to grow. She counts the bricks as they pass, but it’s a simple thing to lose track of as her attention shifts and her eyes veer right.</p><p>The city is beautiful despite its shortcomings. Lights flicker in and out between the metal fastenings and fire escape. She had read about the stars in college, about nebulas and black holes. There had been pictures upon pictures in her books of the milky way and close up of the galaxies taken on some wide open plane in the middle of Kansas, but Clarke had always had a soft spot for the city and its stars. They were people, were families and struggling college kids and friends. </p><p>The Empire State looms some distance away, prominent and steadfast, and it’s only when Spider-woman pulls them up along the outer ledge does her attention regain focus.</p><p>Buildings stretch out before them, the skyline an array of twinkling lights. </p><p>“You’re going to have to hold on tighter than that,” Spider-woman says softly, and Clarke tightens her already white-knuckled grip. </p><p>“I don’t think that’s possible,” Clarke says with an almost negligible shake of her head, unable to tear her eyes away from the street below. Any tighter isn’t just impossible but also potentially dangerous and the last thing she needs is to choke out Spider-woman mid swing.</p><p>Spider-woman maneuvers her to a more centered position, hooking her arms around Clarke's thighs and shifting her higher onto her back. She coaxes gently until Clarke takes the hint and crosses her legs at the ankles, around Spider-woman’s waist, and only then does Spider-woman let go of Clarke’s thighs, apparently confident enough in her strength even though Clarke feels anything but. Her hands are already starting to sweat, and there’s this shred of fear that she’ll lose her grip and plummet, but...</p><p>Spider-woman wouldn’t let that happen.</p><p>“How about now?” Spider-woman asks quietly.</p><p>Clarke sucks in lungful of air. In preparation for what, she isn’t sure, but it makes her feel better. Closing her eyes helps even more. </p><p>She thinks she hears Spider-woman laugh. Or maybe that's just the breeze.</p><p>“Try not to hold your breath.”</p><p>And then she jumps.</p><p>The wind rushes past, sharp and cold against her face, and for a second it feels like she’s going to pass out. The speed is the fastest at the bottom of the swing, and Clarke presses her face against the back of Spider-woman’s neck when her stomach decides to roll on the upswing. It blocks the brunt of the winds and she forces out a breath. </p><p>A gust nearly pushes it back in.</p><p>“Fuck,” she mutters, but it’s a sound felt rather than heard. The wind snatches it away the second it’s out of her mouth and there’s nothing she can do besides let it. It’s a good thing too, because when Spider-woman releases at the apex there’s nothing left in her lungs to scream.</p><p>There’s a sharp <em>thwip</em>, and Clarke doesn’t dare look, keeping her face pressed against the smooth fabric of the suit. She’s about an inch away from losing her lunch, but she feels a brief yet comforting hand along her thigh and remembers to breathe. In through the nose (something soft and subtle or maybe it’s just the sweat and smoke, but Clarke…) and out through her mouth. </p><p>She doesn’t keep track of time, but it feels like ages when the speed gradually lessens to something akin to a kiddy ride at the faire. There’s still a decent amount of wind, but this she can handle, peeking from over Spider-woman’s shoulder as she takes a graceful turn into a small side street. It’s only one more small swing until solid and stable.</p><p>There’s an ache to her limbs as she clumsily slides off Spider-woman’s back and onto the fire escape. The metal creaks, and Clarke blinks repeatedly, trying to make sense of the shadows in the darkness, watching the shape of Spider-woman as she slips her fingers underneath the small gap of the window and the sill. It groans as she lifts it, gets caught halfway up until she shakes it with a bit of force and then pushes it up the rest of the way. A little bit of paint flakes off.</p><p>Spider-woman gestures inside. “Watch your head.”</p><p>Clarke swallows, squaring her shoulders, she swings a leg over, ducking her head. She searches tentatively for the floor with her foot and once contact is made, she swings the other leg over. </p><p>It smells like books. That almost old earthy smell of a well worn paperback from the 80’s that’s been passed through one too many high school lit classes. Just nostalgic enough that the mustyness becomes somewhat pleasant. The wood floor creaks as Clarke shifts her weight, waiting for Spider-woman to follow, and she does, the wood of the window groaning again as it's shut behind them.</p><p>The second thing she notices is that it's warm.</p><p>Or maybe cozy is the word Clarke is looking for as Spider-woman traverses the darkness to turn on the lights and it floods into the surrounding space, dim and underwhelming. There’s a small kitchen and an even smaller living space, and the back of the couch is pushed up against the foot of the bed tucked into the far left corner. All that remains is the small hallway and a random assortment of doors, one of which Clarke assumes leads out into the hall.</p><p>It’s so... ordinary. Modest, Clarke thinks as her eyes take in what little they can. There isn’t much at all in the form of clutter. The kitchen counter is bare besides a familiar thermos, and the small end table by the couch holds a newspaper and an old glass of water. Clarke’s eyes tear away at the sound of the bathroom door opening. The light turns on, slanting across the floor, and the exhaust heaves its first breath and drones. Spider-woman leaves the door open. </p><p>Clarke looks down, curling and uncurling her toes as circulation slowly returns to them. She waits a minute more just to be sure, glancing at the bathroom out of the corner of her eye before making her way over to the counter. </p><p>Once close enough, she picks up the thermos, unscrewing the lid to find Larry circling his makeshift container. He pauses every now and again, content to sit and rest. </p><p>“I’ll get you something better tomorrow, I promise.” Clarke says, and the words feel loud in the silence of everything. After a moment, watching the colors of his scales reflect the meager light, she puts the thermos back down onto the counter, the lid just off to the right. </p><p>“Are you okay by yourself?” Spider-woman says, startling Clarke out of her head. She spins around, guilty even though she knows she has no reason to be and finds Spider-woman a safe distance away. </p><p>She’s still dressed, but the burns and cuts have been cleaned and taken care of. Band-aids peek from the holes in the suit, already congealing with leftover blood and discharge and Clarke frowns.</p><p>“It’s late.”</p><p>Spider-woman responds with a small, insignificant shrug. “The city never sleeps,” she says as if stating a fact, but it sounds forced. Clarke searches her face and finds nothing. </p><p>“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”</p><p>Spider-woman watches her. “Do you have another option?”</p><p>It's an honest question, Clarke realizes, if not for the way it lands like a spear to the gut. Clarke thinks of Raven out enjoying a nice night with her boyfriend and closes her mouth. What is she going to say, anyway? <em>Yo, Raven, sorry to intrude on your date night but our apartment building burned down, can I crash with you and your bf? </em></p><p>Well. She guesses she <em>could</em>.</p><p>There isn’t a doubt in her mind that Raven would let her. In fact, Raven will be madder about not hearing anything at all, but that’s the reality she’s going to have to accept. It’s not like she has a phone anymore.</p><p>“No,” Clarke finally admits, and she hates how sad it sounds coming out.</p><p>“Then make yourself comfortable,” Spider-woman says, matter of fact. “I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of snacks, but--”</p><p>“I’ll pay you back.” Clarke interrupts.</p><p>Spider-woman observes her openly for a moment before looking away. “That’s not necessary.”</p><p>The small slouch disappears from her posture, spine forced straight. She rolls her shoulders, and there’s an audible crack as Spider-woman tilts her head left and right, but she shakes it out. Spider-woman moves towards the window.</p><p>“Be careful,” stumbles from Clarke’s mouth before she can stop it, and Spider-woman pauses a few feet away, head turning to glance over her shoulder. “Okay?”</p><p>After a moment she replies, “Okay.”</p><p>Spider-woman wrangles the window open again, stepping back out onto the fire escape. Her eyes catch Clarke's through the pane as she goes to shut it, and like something too good to be true, it doesn’t last long enough.</p><p>The only thing that remains after she’s gone is the silence, threaded between a surprisingly familiar scent. Something earthy and smelling slightly of flowers, and Clarke stands there motionless in the middle of the room unable to move.</p><p>It feels wrong in the same way that it’s polite not to stare. This wasn’t something she was supposed to see--never would have seen if her current circumstances hadn’t decided to flip her the proverbial bird. In the end though, there’s nothing she can do about it. </p><p>And to be honest, that’s actually the biggest relief.</p><p>She forces herself to move, taking purposeful strides towards the bathroom and the still on light spilling over the floor. It’s quaint just like everything else. A small shower stall and a tiny sink. The toilet is tucked into the corner to the left of the sink and everything is surprisingly free of blood. </p><p>It feels like the shower after that fateful afternoon and Clarke tries not to think about it, rubbing her hands until their sud covered, the water comfortably warm, and she splashes her face and scrubs. The water sloshes back into the bowl, dripping down her chin.</p><p>There’s a pile of clothes folded neatly on the rattan laundry basket, and she reaches for the face cloth on top and wipes away the excess.  The soot, dirt, and sweat swirl down the drain and Clarke rests her weight against the sink, breathing out slowly. Her lungs hurt, and her mother would kill her if she knew, but she doubts her ability to make it to the couch before collapsing let alone the hospital. She doesn’t need the help anyway. It’ll pass like everything else.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She wakes up late. Without an alarm, it was practically guaranteed, and while unsurprising it still lights a fire under her ass when she spots the sun peeking in through the blinds. She jumps up from the couch, a blanket falling from her waist she doesn’t have the time to think about, before rushing to the bathroom. </p><p>Leftover smoke seems to linger in her mouth, and she uses her index finger and a little bit of the off brand toothpaste to brush her teeth. No matter how small, It does wonders for her self-esteem. She spits out into the sink, lifting her head to smile into the mirror and everything almost feels normal. </p><p>Clarke strips out of the old, smoke infused long-sleeve shirt from the day before, tugging it over her head and letting it fall onto the floor. Kicking it into the corner and out of sight, she reaches for the pile of clothes, taking the green sweater off of the top of the laundry hamper. She doesn’t try to think of the implications because, in the scheme of things, they mean nothing. She doesn’t have a house, she doesn’t have her phone, she doesn’t have any clothes, and the alternative is there for the taking. After all, Spider-woman told her to help herself.</p><p>She pulls it over her head, and the sleeves are long, but it’s warm and soft. Clarke tugs down her pants next and they are quick to join the pile in the corner with her shirt. She wiggles the jeans up her legs, and despite all that muscle very prominently on display, it’s a struggle. She sucks in a breath, slipping the button through, and exhales in relief. </p><p>The apartment looks different in the morning. Sunlight pours in through the window facing the street, falling over the table and the one lone chair, and it’s the glint of something metal that catches her attention. She stops.</p><p>A key, small and unassuming, sits in a sliver of light and there’s only one thing it could possibly unlock. Clarke slides out the piece of paper on which it sits, her assumption quick to be confirmed. Spider-woman’s handwriting is neat and calculated. Meticulously crossed t’s and soft round g’s, and after staring at it for longer than she would care to admit, Clarke slips the piece of paper and the three 20 dollar bills into her pocket.</p><p>She checks on Larry before she leaves, still cooped up in his cup, and then slips on the shoes by the door. Luckily for her, they fit. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry,” Clarke says quietly. She knows it isn’t needed, but it doesn’t feel right not to say it. The only consultation is at least it's not in person, and she glances around at the relatively empty lobby of the library before turning towards the payphone.</p><p>“No, it’s not your fault,” Raven says it like a sigh. Besides the initial reaction, it’s a lot less interrogating than Clarke expected. Clarke can hear Raven’s boyfriend in the background, moving around pots and pans. “You promise me you're alright?”</p><p>“You sound like my mother.”</p><p>“Don’t avoid the question.”</p><p>“Besides losing basically everything to my name?” Clarke mutters, rhetoric. She clears her throat. “I’m doing okay.”</p><p>“Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me and Finn?”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head, leaning forward a smidge to rest her head against the divider. “No, I…” She stuffs her right hand into her pocket, the cold metal of the key pressed against the center of her palm. “I’m staying with a friend--a coworker actually.”</p><p>“Oh,” Raven says, “A coworker friend, huh?”</p><p>“Before you say anything, it’s not like that.”</p><p>“It’s okay, you can say Wells.”</p><p>Clarke doesn’t correct her, and for a moment she doesn’t even dignify the comment with a response. It’s safer that way.</p><p>“Clarke?”</p><p>“I’m not having this conversation with you,” she says.</p><p>“Fine,” and Raven only sounds mildly bothered. She lets the silence hang before starting up again, softer this time, “Is there anything you need me to do?”</p><p>“Not really,” Clarke answers. “I already spent an hour on the phone with the insurance company and the bank. Is there anything you want me to add to the claim?”</p><p>“You spent more time in that apartment than me,” Raven replies.</p><p> “Then I think I'm good,” Clarke says. She stuffs her hand into her pocket, closing her hand around the key. “I should be getting a new phone in the mail tomorrow. I’ll text you if I have to switch the number.”</p><p>“You better.”</p><p>“Love you, Rae.”</p><p><br/>
Raven lets out a soft chuckle of laughter. “I love you, too,” she says, no doubt rolling her eyes at the same time. “You know where to find me if you need help.”<br/>
 <br/>
“Always.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She uses the money on a fish tank. And a few other essential items that are still mostly fish related. The only exception is a toothbrush and couple of work outfits she finds for a total of eight dollars at the local thrift shop, and that leaves her enough leftover to catch the subway home.  </p><p>Or whatever home is nowadays. Clarke gets off near the small park, the only landmark she had been able to recognize in her rush this morning, plastic bags with her clothes dangling from one arm and everything else packed tightly into the cheapest five gallon tank she could find. The stairs are easy, it’s the door that gives her trouble, and she plops everything on the floor with a grunt before digging through her pocket for the key. It fits in easily enough, but like the window, it requires a bit of a wiggle for it to work. The tumblers click, and Clarke shoulders the door open all the way, reaching down to drag everything into the small entryway, and shuts the door behind her with a foot.</p><p>Clarke sets up everything on the kitchen counter near an outlet and it takes her close to an hour to get things as close to how it was before. Larry certainly seems to appreciate the extra swimming room, following Clarke's finger as she skims it across the surface. She dries her finger on the sweater before reaching for the little cup of fish food, pinching the pellets between her index and thumb and dropping them in one by one. Larry is quick to swallow them up. </p><p>It’s a quiet afternoon after that, one Clarke spends in relative silence minus the hustle and bustle that can be heard on the street below. She finds herself a pad of  paper and turns on the television. There’s only a couple channels to choose from, but it’s more for ambiance as she scribbles out a to-do list. </p><p>One, there’s the issue of the all important documents that need immediate replacement; her license and social security, her birth certificate, not to mention finishing the claim for the insurance company. And then there’s work and acquiring a new camera and--</p><p>Clarke sniffs, dragging her hand across her nose.</p><p>She feels her dwindling patience like a pressure in her chest and coupled with the building fatigue, it doesn’t surprise her when her eyes begin to sting. It also doesn’t make her any less angry, and Clarke shuts them tight, the burn instantaneous, and rubs and rubs until the tears come and go, wiped away with the back of her hand.</p><p>Clarke glances over her shoulder at the sound of the window being pushed open and lowers her hand, watching Spider-woman duck through the window. A steady cold stream of air follows her in and she’s quick to shut it. </p><p>For a second, it’s as if the fact she had company slipped from her mind, and Spider-woman’s posture goes rigid at the sight of Clarke hunched at the kitchen table. Clarke doesn’t blame her. She doesn’t need to see her face to pinpoint each mark of exhaustion. It’s in her limbs and heavy steps, the louder than usual breathing. </p><p>“Hi,” Clarke says, and it comes out so much softer than intended. An exhale short of a sigh. It’s nice not to feel alone. </p><p>“Hi,” Spider-woman responds, soft in its own apprehension. She looks tired, but after a moment she moves her feet, bypassing the table towards the kitchen. </p><p>Clarke follows with her eyes, turning slightly in her seat. She notices the brief hint of confusion and then acceptance at Larry’s new residence upon the counter, before Spider-woman reaches for a glass in the cupboard to the right of the fridge.</p><p>She turns on the faucet, positions the glass underneath and lets it fill. Spider-woman pushes the mask up to her nose and Clarke tries not to think too much about how she angles her face away, raising the glass to take a long drink. It’s empty within seconds and she sets the glass down on the counter, pulling the mask back into place.  </p><p>“Thank you for letting me stay,” Clarke says, the words quiet and it sounds so… basic that it nearly makes her cringe.</p><p>“You don’t need to thank me.”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head. “That’s not true.”</p><p>“It was the right thing to do,” Spider-woman says.</p><p>“And you always do the right thing,” Clarke responds softly, and she knows it's loud enough hear. </p><p>Spider-woman’s hand tenses around the glass, and her silence says more than it should. She moves left down the counter, placing the now empty cup in the sink. “You need to be careful.”</p><p>Clarke blinks, and it takes a second or two for the words to sink in. “I am,” she says, and she has no other words for the churning inside her stomach besides anger. And it’s manageable and small, but it’s there. No doubt a culmination of the past 24 hours and the last person who should be on the receiving end is the only person in front of her. “I go to work, I do my job, I go home. What else can I possibly do?”</p><p>“Your reputation precedes you, Clarke.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Clarke says, purposefully obtuse.</p><p>Spider-woman exhales. “We can’t rule out the possibility that it was planned.”</p><p>“What are you trying to suggest? That someone purposely set fire to my apartment building? The fire department is on record saying that it was an unattended gas stove on the second floor.” Spider-woman hums. “That was the official statement.”</p><p>“And officials only tell the truth.” </p><p>Clarke closes her mouth, brows knit together, and for a moment she wishes she was too exhausted to comprehend the implication. But she’s not, and her mind runs. The first thought is of course the worst, and when she looks up she finds Spider-woman waiting.</p><p>“There are horrible people in this world, Clarke,” Spider-woman says. </p><p>Clarke curls her hand into a fist to stop the trembling. “I know that,” she says. “I’m not naive.”</p><p>“Then you should know why you need to be careful.”</p><p>“Being complacent doesn’t change things.” Clarke pushes her seat out, allowing enough space for her to shift and face Spider-woman head on. “What we need right now are people willing to work for something better. You can’t do it alone.”</p><p>“You can’t change things if you’re dead,” Spider-woman states, turning towards her. There’s a slip of anger and desperation that Clarke recognizes, and a weird kind of familiarity washes over her. It sounds like something she’s heard before. </p><p>A beat, one stretched out moment of silence, and then Spider-woman looks away, breaking eye contact. She braces her hands on the counter, tension heavy in her shoulders as she leans her weight against it, arms straight and fists clenched.</p><p>Clarke opens her mouth, “I--”</p><p>Spider-woman pushes off, the movement startling Clarke back into silence. She watches Spider-woman disappear towards the bathroom, the light flooding the entryway for a brief moment before the door closes with a sharp crack. </p><p>Clarke shifts back around, dropping her head onto her hands. The anxiousness creeps in like a unwelcomed guest and she inhales a calculated breath through her nose, but it trickles out of her mouth. She shouldn’t be here. It was wrong to even think it was a good idea. And with that thought she stands, pushing out her chair. </p><p>There isn’t anything to grab besides Larry, but she’ll do that tomorrow when her mind isn’t a mess. He’s safe where he is, and it’ll give her a chance to wash and return Spider-woman’s clothes. She’s just about to pass the bathroom towards the front door when the bathroom opens.</p><p>Clarke stops in her tracks, but they still bump into each other. Clarke pulls away, averting her eyes. “This was a mistake,” she says, feeling Spider-woman’s eyes on her. “I should go--”</p><p>“I’m leaving.”</p><p>Clarke looks up. “What?”</p><p>“Feel free to stay.” Spider-woman steps around her, footsteps quiet, and Clarke turns, following the shape of her through the darkening apartment. She pauses by the window, the last bits of afternoon sun filtering through the glass. </p><p>Spider-woman is gone soon thereafter.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>For the next two days she doesn’t see Spider-woman. At least not in person. Clarke sees her on the news--in pictures posted on social media and it’s strange how familiarity brings with it a peculiar sense of unease. </p><p>Or perhaps familiarity is the wrong word, Clarke realizes after deciding it was an absolute waste not to use the bed.</p><p>Intimacy?</p><p>It’s hard to describe the discrepancy between the minimal amount of information she has on Spider-woman and the fact that she knows what it’s like to wear her clothes. That the brand of shampoo Spider-woman uses is strawberry scented and the color of her toothbrush matches the symbol on her chest and somehow all these mundane trivial things add up to make someone so incredibly not ordinary. </p><p>There’s no sign of her on the third day either, and this time Clarke keeps the television off. She doesn’t need the distraction. There’s work to catch up on and after a trip to pick up her mail, money to spend. </p><p>The first thing Clarke does is buy a new camera. </p><p>A Nikon perhaps a bit out of her price range, but it’ll pay for itself in the long run. Or at least that’s what she tells herself as she leaves the electronic store with her purchase (and various accessories) bundled in her arms. It’s the little things, she reasons, sitting at the small table in Spider-woman’s kitchen with everything spread out before her like it’s an all you can eat smorgasbord. There’s an array of lenses, safety equipment, cleaning supplies, and a few extra memory cards, but all of it is essential.</p><p>She takes the time to test everything out. The various lenses and the aperture settings, and it culminates in a near 2GB worth of pictures of that small apartment in Brooklyn. The small collection of books and old glasses of water, the unkempt and ruffled sheets of the bed in the far corner, the way the light folds itself over the floor as the day fades gracefully into evening. Larry in all his sassy glory.  </p><p>She spins slowly, adjusting the lens and the focus, pressing her finger over the shutter release. It clicks in time with each press as she turns. An old newspaper, the plate still dirty from dinner, the dust in the air--</p><p>And then there’s red.</p><p>So much red.</p><p>Her hands drop and the scope falls from her field of view. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Clarke breathes, blindly placing the camera onto the table less gently than she should, before hurrying over to help the superhero currently struggling to pull herself through the now open window. </p><p>Clarke grabs her forearm, the other hand under Spider-woman’s armpit, and pulls as gently as she can. Spider-woman grunts, but the help proves fruitful and she manages to swing her left leg over into the apartment. Her feet hold her only for a moment, and Clarke isn’t prepared for the weight that falls into her. Clarke’s knees buckle and they both crumple towards the floor.</p><p>“Hey,” Clarke says, attempting to lean back to assess the damage. She’s sure the fear in her voice can be heard from a mile away, but Spider-woman’s body hangs like dead weight. “Hey--” She moves her hand to Spider-woman’s waist, but jerks it away at the wetness she finds. Fingers and palm sticky, Clarke swallows her heart down into her chest, and grits her teeth. She counts backward from five and then with all her strength, lifts.</p><p>Somehow she manages to prop Spider-woman up against the wall, and when Clarke’s sure she won’t topple over, she reaches up behind and forces the window shut. </p><p>“Clarke.”</p><p>“Don’t--” Clarke mutters through her teeth, pushing herself up. “Don’t you dare move.”</p><p>If there’s one thing Spider-woman keeps stocked, it’s the first aid, and Clarke piles an assortment of various supplies into her arms that range from antiseptic wipes and cotton swabs, surgical needles and thread to cloth bandages and bandaids. She juggles it all without dropping a bit of it, dumping it by Spider-woman’s side once she’s close. </p><p>“No,” comes Spider-woman’s wheezed response and Clarke almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.</p><p>“I don’t think you really have a choice,” Clarke says, but she checks herself. She sighs, settling into a squat.  “Do you not trust me?”</p><p>Spider-woman shifts uncomfortably, and she looks up, but it doesn’t last more than a second. “I do trust you, Clarke.”</p><p>“Then let me help you.”</p><p>Spider-woman shakes her head, breath trembling on the inhale. The exhale is just as shaky. “Maybe it was a mistake.”</p><p>Clarke inches closer. Spider-woman doesn’t move. “It wasn’t,” Clarke says softly, and she feels that it's true. If for nothing else than this right here. Spider-woman’s shoulders sag, arms and hands limp by her side, and Clarke grazes her fingertips over Spider-woman’s neck. Gentle, searching for where the mask ends and the suit begins. She hooks her fingers underneath when she finds it, and carefully lifts.</p><p>The fabric peels away and there’s isn’t anywhere to stare but forward. The dim overhead light catches the line of her jaw, the muscles in her cheeks tense and strained, but Spider-woman doesn’t move to stop her even as the mask slips upward over her nose, strands of brown hair falling loose in clumped waves over strong shoulders.</p><p>Spider-woman’s face is a mess, blood leaking from her nose, smeared around familiar lips, and Clarke thinks she can still see the outline of the bruise on her neck from all those weeks ago. The upward glance is unconscious and she glimpses only a hint of color before looking away.</p><p>She can’t. They’re already in far too deep as it is.</p><p>“Where is…” Clarke trails off, heart beating a tad too fast. Spider-woman reaches up, face contorting in a minor show of pain as she finds the minuscule zipper at the side of her neck. Eager for something to do, Clarke shoos her hands away. </p><p>Contact is inevitable and Clarke doesn’t bother with pretenses. Spider-woman’s skin is hot to the touch as she strips back the suit, and the burns are the first thing she notices. Littered over Spider-woman’s left shoulder like constellations slowly healing from the big bang, but they’re not the only scars that stand out and it’s a sobering realization.</p><p>Spider-woman helps despite Clarke’s insistence, pulling her arms free from the sleeves, face a permanent grimace. The suit pools around her waist, chest covered only by a skin-toned bandeau, and Clarke quickly assesses the damage.</p><p>Mostly thick purpling bruises, one cut stands out near her abdomen, though upon closer inspection it doesn’t appear to be life threatening. Just a mess, and Clarke exhales a quiet sigh of relief. Grabbing a rag, she sets to cleaning the wound.</p><p>“Are you avoiding me?” Clarke asks, unable to stop herself. She’s happy to have something to do with her hands, but her mind is free to wander and the proximity brings the last couple of days to the forefront of her mind. It gives her something else to focus on besides the warmth of the skin under her hands. </p><p>Spider-woman clears her throat, but it doesn’t do much. “Am I?” she says, hoarse.</p><p>The softness, however, is disarming in the worst of ways. Voice clearer now that the mask is removed, Clarke is powerless against the way it worms into the lonelier parts of her heart. She looks up against her better judgement, and it’s in that moment that Clarke knows she’s lost. </p><p>“Yeah, I think you are,” Clarke says, tearing her eyes away from Spider-woman’s face. She sees it though, burned like an imprint in her mind. Sharp jaw and soft lips and tired green eyes. Clarke scoots another couple inches closer, silently thanking her mother and the years of her youth that made the sight of blood a common occurrence. Clarke adds on quietly a moment later, “is it because of me?”</p><p>“No,” Spider-woman says. </p><p>Clarke has trouble believing it. “Then why?”</p><p>“You’re safer here.”</p><p>“Are you always this concerned about everyone’s safety?” Clarke mutters, more to herself, plastering a bandage over the gash. She smooths her hands over it to be sure it sticks. “It’s a wonder you haven’t gotten yourself killed.” </p><p>Spider-woman chuckles, short and unsurprisingly lacking in mirth. Her posture slips even further, curled inward upon herself, hair tumbling over her shoulders. “Not everyone,” she says softly.</p><p>Clarke raises her head and settles the whole of her attention on the woman before her. The sun slants over Spider-woman’s eyes, tender and warm. It stirs something inside her chest and Clarke thinks solemnly that--</p><p>There’s really no going back from this. </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>another big thanks to eris223, you're a lifesaver!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Lexa is no stranger to pain. Over the course of the last four years it was a gradual progression from bumps and bruises to deeper and deeper wounds. The burglars with their baseball bats and crowbars, robbers and their affinity for guns, and now more frequently the recent underground ilk and their penchant for modified weapons of mass destruction. As if guns by themselves weren’t already an absolute pain in her side. If it weren’t for the perks that came with being superhuman, she’d have the joints of a 90 year old by the time she turned 35. </p><p>Luckily, right now the only thing that she needed to worry about was the recovery, and it is the first thought that comes to mind upon waking when her side flares upon making a minor adjustment in her position laid out in bed. The second is that there’s a decidedly unfamiliar scent buried underneath the usual detergent, but the thought is quickly smothered by the pain of an oncoming headache. It pulses behind her eyes in waves, and she sits up with a groan, gritting her teeth against the sharp pain spreading through her abdomen at the movement. It’s only when she’s firmly upright that the breath collected in her lungs releases, and she pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers. </p><p>One pain traded for another it seems.</p><p>She pulls her hand away from her face, grabbing the sheets twisted around her legs, but she stops, momentarily frozen at the sight of Clarke less than six feet away, tucked into the corner of the couch. She perks up at the noise, and Lexa watches as she turns, draping her arm across the back of the couch and partially on the bed. Her hair, spun gold where the light catches it just right, looks soft pulled away from her face in a half bun. </p><p>“Hey,” she says softly, and Lexa crosses an arm over her exposed abdomen, self conscious. It’s not unlike feeling naked and Lexa drops her gaze to watch Clarke's fingers fiddle with the bunched up sheets. “How’s your wound?”</p><p>“Hurts,” Lexa says simply, and she chances a glance upward. </p><p>Clarke tilts her head, a quiet smile forming at the corner of her lips as she rolls her eyes and looks away. “Understatement of the century, but okay, sure.”</p><p>The tension lessons, and Lexa lets herself relax. Her arm drops from her stomach, hands in her lap, and she slowly touches the tip of each finger to her thumb, counting. </p><p>The sunlight stretches in tendrils of light, shooing away the early moments of darkness, and Clarke scribbles away on a notepad. The television makes no sound, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom, and the graininess of the picture must leave much to be desired, though Clarke doesn’t seem to be bothered. </p><p>Lexa exhales. Slowly. Softly.</p><p>It’s been a while since she’s felt this warm.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The break room is bustling at nine o’clock, and Clarke welcomes the sight of a full pot of coffee as she wades through the tables and morning traffic for a much needed pick-me-up. If she was going to get any work done today without her mind wandering places it shouldn’t then, well, there wasn’t another option better than this. Yesterday evening had been Not Good, but at least the morning had been infinitely better. That didn’t mean she hadn’t spent the night a little too worried to sleep properly. Waking up in fits and spurts only to find everything quiet and Spider-woman sleeping soundly.</p><p>And with no one to tell her not to? It meant she allowed herself a moment to stare. Without the blood caked around her lips, Spider-woman’s face appeared almost gentle. Soft in sleep and lacking all of the hard edges Clarke had grown used to seeing, Clarke had propped her arm over the back of the couch, head in hand, and stared. </p><p>Politely, of course. There was no way those few brief years in medical school had prepared her for superhero biology, and as a result the worry never really left. But watching her? The curve of her lashes over her cheeks, the gradual relief that came with each measured rise and fall of her chest… There was a certain kind of tranquility in that.</p><p>It’s what she sees when she zones out for a moment too long, only to be jerked back to reality when the coffee spills over the sides of her thermos. “Shit,” she mutters, returning the pot back to its station while shaking her right hand free of coffee. She rips off a paper towel from the dispenser and quickly mops up her mess.</p><p>“You okay there Clarke?”</p><p>Clarke glances back, finding John and Matt from marketing situated at their usual table. “Yeah,” she says, tossing the wet, balled up paper towels in the trash. “It’s an off day.”</p><p>“I heard your apartment building caught fire a couple days ago?”</p><p>“Unfortunately.” Clarke grabs the bottle of creamer from the fridge, unscrews the cap. She doesn’t really want to talk about it, but she knows it’s better to control the gossip than let it run rampant on its own. “But I’m fine.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” John says, and Clarke can’t tell if it’s meant to be as antagonistic as it sounds but it feels like it is. A thorn in her side. She pretends she doesn’t hear, recapping the cream and putting it back in the fridge, grabbing a plastic spoon and giving her coffee a few, quick stirs.</p><p>The television in the corner of the room draws their attention away, and Clarke sighs quietly, capping her thermos. She flips the lip open, leaning into the counter as she turns toward the television and takes a sip.</p><p>And Clarke nearly chokes on it. Her nose stings, a result of some of the coffee traveling upward, and she forces herself to swallow. John and Matt don’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with the morning news and when she no longer feels the need to cough, Clarke focuses.</p><p>It’s yesterday's news, or at least a recap of it, but it is entirely new to her. After a morning and afternoon in a photography induced haze, and then an evening coated in worry, she hadn’t even thought to check the news. </p><p>And it’s good she hadn’t, because as she stands there in the crowded breakroom, the raw fear from the night before comes rushing back. All she sees before looking away is a black suit stained red among a cluster of smoking and totaled cars, and for a moment it’s hard to wrap her mind around the truth. That Spider-woman is back at her apartment. </p><p>That she’s safe. </p><p>“Show off,” John comments to Matt, leaning back in his seat. He glances left to Clarke and adds, “At this point she just does it for attention.”</p><p>Clarke’s brows furrow. “What?” </p><p>“They live off it,” he says, gesturing to the television.</p><p>Clarke remembers Spider-woman bruised and trembling. The blood on her lips and the wounds that would heal into yet another scar. The anger is quick to ignite. “If they did it for the attention they’d be a villain.”</p><p>John tilts his head, mouth opening, but before he is able to say anything else, Clarke packs up her things, coffee in hand, and leaves.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Can I help you with anything?”</p><p>Clarke startles, coming back to her senses with a small shake of her head. Around her people bustle through the supermarket. “Yes, please, can I get a pound of the Willow Tree macaroni salad and a half a pound of the american cheese?”</p><p>“Sure thing, it’ll just be a minute.”</p><p>“Thank you.” Clarke steps back from the counter, tapping her fingers against the handle of the basket hung over her arm. After a second she adjusts it higher into the crook of her elbow and the heaviness becomes easier to bear. The contents inside, however, jostle precariously, and Clarke rescues the chips before the box of burger patties can crush them. In retrospect she should have just gotten a carriage, but it’s too late for that now. </p><p>“Here you are,” the young man says, handing over a container and a zip-lock bag.</p><p>Clarke takes them. “Appreciate it, thank you.”</p><p>Balancing the new additions carefully on top, Clarke takes off towards the front of the store. There’s far more than she came in for, Clarke realizes as she loads the various products from her basket onto the conveyor belt of the register, and for some reason it still doesn’t feel like enough. Which probably says more about her tendencies to overspend on food than Spider-woman’s rather pitiful assortment of snacks. But to be fair, it is the least she can do.</p><p>What she had underestimated was the block and a half walk home from the supermarket with four heavy grocery bags. When she gets back to the apartment building, she braves the creaky elevator, too tired for the stairs.</p><p>It’s a relief when the doors slide open, this hollow dull ding ringing soundly, and Clarke makes a beeline for the corner apartment, juggling the weight of bags as she digs for the keys in her pocket. She hooks a finger around the ring, pulling it out, and tries rather unsuccessfully to fan through them for the right one.</p><p>“Can I help you with that?”</p><p>Clarke turns and the first thing she settles on is a familiar set of lips and then upward towards quiet green eyes. Clarke jaw drops, and in her stupor, so does one of the bags. “Shit,” she mutters, scrambling for the runaway plastic bag of groceries as it slips off her wrist. Spider-woman saves it just in time, grabbing the bag before it hits the floor. Clarke’s first instinct is to argue, but it’s the sight of her, dressed down and bared and entirely too human, that trips Clarke back into silence.</p><p>“I think I can handle this,” Spider-woman says softly, wrapping the plastic around her wrist and Clarke must look like an idiot with her mouth agape. Her eyes flicker over Spider-woman’s face, searching, and then further down, following the curve of her shoulder exposed by the loose neckline of a familiar comfy green sweater. In the light of the hallway, the burns along her left shoulder are just barely visible.</p><p>It still doesn’t feel right seeing her like this.</p><p>Clarke adjusts her grip. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“I believe I was told to ‘take it easy,’” Spider-woman answers, this small quirk finding the corner of her lips.</p><p>“I didn’t actually expect you to listen,” Clarke says, only a tad louder than whisper, stepping closer despite the empty hallway around them, and it’s a useless feeling. No one knows New York’s best kept secret is standing right next to her in the flesh and yet.... Clarke still feels oddly protective. Even if Spider-woman is the last person who needs it.</p><p>“I’ve been known to. On occasion.” Spider-woman takes the ring of keys from Clarke's fingers, slotting the necessary one into the door with ease. She holds the door open for Clarke. “I wouldn’t get used to it.”</p><p>Clarke steps through and makes her way into the kitchen, setting everything down next to Larry’s tank on the kitchen counter, aware of Spider-woman’s presence as she comes up beside her, placing her bag next to Clarke's. She sneaks a glance.</p><p>“Why are you doing this?” Spider-woman asks, and Clarke returns her attention to unpacking.</p><p>She shrugs. “It’s the least I could do?” Clarke says, and this time she doesn’t bother stopping herself from looking. Spider-woman meets her gaze, and for a second Clarke sees a little bit of the vulnerability Spider-woman is so good at hiding. It’s all in her eyes, and Clarke can’t take much of it for long. She grabs the bag with the burger patties, and sets them purposely down on the counter. “Truthfully, though? You really did have shit for snacks.”</p><p>Spider-woman’s exhale is almost like laughter as she gathers up the empty plastic bags and moves to stow them underneath the kitchen sink.  She straightens once they’re safely tucked away. “You have a point.”</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Clarke asks.</p><p>Spider-woman’s head tilts. Her hand unconsciously moves towards her stomach, hovering briefly over the sweater and the wound beneath, before dropping. “Better.”</p><p>“Are you hungry?</p><p>“A little.”</p><p>Clarke nods, reaching out for the box of patties and tucking her thumb under the cardboard lip and running it through.  “Do you have a skillet?”</p><p>Spider-woman steps back, standing on her toes to reach above the stove for a large cast iron skillet, pulling it down from its perch. It looks almost brand new, and Clarke has half a brain to believe it probably is.</p><p>There’s no cooking spray, so she uses a bit of butter to grease the pan before plopping two good sized burger patties along with the buns to toast, and it’s a matter of moments before the scent of cooking fills Spider-woman’s small apartment. It makes the space infinitely more homely, and Clarke searches for a tomato.</p><p>“I can take care of that,” Spider-woman says gently as Clarke takes one from the bag. Clarke doesn’t argue. Her fingers unfurl and Spider-woman takes the tomato from her hand.</p><p>Spider-woman digs through the drawer near the sink for a knife, and then the cupboards for a plate, before setting the tomato down onto the counter, knife in hand.</p><p>“Spider-woman?”</p><p>Spider-woman looks up.</p><p>“Nothing, I just…” Clarke stops, pursing her lips, face twisting as the words refuse to come out. She’s not sure why. It’s a simple question and yet it hangs on the tip of her tongue. “Is there...” She swallows, shrugging her shoulders. “Something I can call you?”</p><p>Clarke studies the green of her eyes, and for some reason they feel harder to read now than ever before. A second later Spider-woman looks away. “The neighbors call me Stacy.”</p><p>The answer is not what she expected, and the blunt way in which it is said brings a bit of humor to a previously serious conversation. One Clarke realizes to let go. She snorts. “You are definitely not a Stacy.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>The burgers sizzle in the skillet, and Clarke nudges them with the spatula before looking left in the lull, studying the profile of Spider-woman’s face as she cuts thin slices and lays them carefully on the plate. “Cassandra,” Clarke muses, following the line of her jaw to the shell of her ear.  “Alex, maybe.”</p><p>Spider-woman glances right to catch Clarke's stare, and Clarke is quick to return her attention to the burgers. She checks the underside to make sure they’re cooking evenly and then with a quick little flick, flips the first one over before doing the same with the second.</p><p>“Do you want cheese?” Clarke asks, rummaging for the deli bagged american. She takes one slice out for herself and then at Spider-woman’s nod, takes out another.</p><p>It melts slowly. In between the sizzle, the corners of the cheese slowly wilt, curling downward as the heat from the skillet rises upward. The smell is heavy, beef and cheese and grease, but pleasant, and Clarke’s stomach grumbles, watching out of the corner of her eye as Spider-woman gathers other various fixes and condiments from Clarke’s haul.</p><p>“Here,” Clarke says a few minutes later, reaching for one of the two clean plates in the sink. She places the toasted bun open and then scoops a medium done burger onto her spatula, which is then deposited safely onto it’s new bed.</p><p>She puts together her own plate next. Bottom bun, patty with cheese, tomato, a little ring of onion, lettuce, and then a bit of mustard and relish smeared under the top half of the bread. The bag of potato chips lets out the quietest of pops as Clarke pulls the top open and she digs out a generous handful, piling it on her plate. She does the same for Spider-woman.</p><p>It’s magazine worthy, Clarke thinks as she steps back to admire her work. Or maybe that’s her stomach talking.</p><p>“Bon Appetit,” Clarke says as she picks up her own plate. She lingers though, stuck. She likes the warmth proximity brings. “And thank you.”</p><p>“For what?” Spider-woman asks, watching her. </p><p>“For saving my life.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Her mother had always said she had the tendency to take things too far, and Clarke hadn’t really believed her. Parents are like that--nitpicky and needling--and as Clarke stands in the bustling home decor aisle in Target she realizes they are also infuriatingly right. People squeeze by in the meager space, the store packed with shoppers with Christmas only two weeks away, and Clarke scoops up her find before she can second guess herself. At that price, she’d be a fool not to. </p><p>There’s also some more shampoo and soap, and refills to the ever dwindling various first aid equipment mixed in with a bit of food from the produce department. Somehow she leaves with only two bags and one large box. </p><p>It does cut her trip short. She calls a cab, shelling out a bit of extra money for the extra room and storage, and the drive from downtown to Brooklyn is peaceful. Clarke types up drafts on her phone for work, and is only disturbed when the driver pulls up to the curb in front of the apartment building. She pays, grabs her things from the trunk, and then heads inside. </p><p>It’s easier now, with practice under her belt. Clarke knows to wiggle the key until she hears a click before rotating it back into a centered position, leaning into the door to push it open. She flicks on the lights on her way into the kitchen, says hi to Larry, and then lets out a loud grunt as she lifts the fruits of her labor onto the counter. It sits there unassuming, a two foot fake Christmas tree that, when she plugs in the cord, twinkles through an array of lights. She steps back, watching the light paint the counter and surrounding space red, green, blue, white in a continuous cycle. </p><p>Clarke nods to herself, satisfied, and unpacks the rest from the bags, filing things away where they belong as she goes. Another layer of familiarity that for some reason doesn’t scare her as much as she knows it should. Ignoring is easy. </p><p>And Spider-woman doesn’t mention it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It snows for the first time on Sunday. A Saturday of rain transforms into a silent unassuming morning and the world seems quieter for it, the roads nearly bare as people hunker down for whatever mother nature brings. </p><p>For a while it’s simply nice to watch. Hunkered down on the lone couch with a blanket and a cup of coffee, Clarke finds herself easily distracted by the swirls of white building just outside the windows, piling up onto the railing of the fire escape. It’s the sudden gradualness of it, but the ‘blink and you’ll miss it’ progress. </p><p>And yet time flies, or it feels like it does. It must be noon when the window opens and Clarke doesn’t look up from her spot on the couch. A test of self discipline that, in the end, she only barely passes. Spider-woman remains a point of reference in the peripheral, and Clarke blames it on the circumstances and the too small apartment. </p><p>“How’s work?” she asks, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Spider-woman pause in her dallying to glance in her direction. A second later she peels off the mask.</p><p>“Slow,” Spider-woman admits and the words sound like a breath of air as the mask gives way. Clarke is unable to stop herself from looking, taking in the sight of her by the kitchen. The mask clenched in her right hand drops to her side and their eyes meet across the room. </p><p>Clarke lowers her notebook. “That’s a good thing, right?”</p><p>“Yes,” Spider-woman says with a shake of her head. “It’s just not something I’m used to.”</p><p>She’s motionless for a moment longer before dropping the mask onto the table. She undoes a bit of the suit, an inch or two that leaves the skin of her neck exposed, and then wanders towards the counter for a glass, which she then fills with water from the faucet.</p><p>Spider-woman downs it in under five seconds and Clarke looks away. She keeps track of the sounds though, quiet as they are. The dull clunk as the glass is placed in the dirty sink, then the soft and nearly quiet steps across the hardwood. The bathroom door shuts with a gentle click.</p><p>Clarke gets through a couple paragraphs when the door opens again, and she catches herself before she looks. She scribbles over the last line, the wording wrong, and goes to start again. A few seconds later she crosses that out too. </p><p>The mattress groans, followed by a nearly inaudible sigh and shuffling. “Would you mind if I...?”</p><p>Clarke turns around, finding Spider-woman sat at the edge of the bed, hand paused over the digital clock radio on the nightstand. “No,” Clarke says, almost too fast. “Not at all.”</p><p>The radio comes to life, and Spider-woman tunes the dial until the signal finds something clear. It doesn’t surprise Clarke that it’s some news station, though she doesn’t need a meteorologist waxing poetry about the weather when she can simply look outside. She gets back to work.</p><p>“Was it bad outside?” Clarke asks, tearing the paper. She sets it aside, starting new.</p><p>“It was getting there,” Spider-woman answers, and Clarke hums.</p><p>The words flow easier now, and Clarke alternates between checking the notes on her phone and the discarded draft to her right, paragraphs slow to form, but it’s steady work. The radio moves on to current events and the slow rebuild and progress of the city even all these weeks later. Inevitably topics change to the chaos of the week and eventually Spider-woman herself. Her last daring escapade--a robbery cut short, a construction job gone awry....</p><p>Clarke taps her pen against the page, a quick couple of dull beats before pulling herself away. She glances backward, and pauses, taking in the sight of Spider-woman laid back against the rumpled sheets. Her face is hidden in the crook of her elbow, and the only sign she’s alive is the slow rise and fall of her chest. It’s when a neighboring apartment door opens and closes with a sharp and sudden noise with no response that Clarke opens her mouth.</p><p>“Hey,” she says, far too quiet, and maybe that’s the point. Spider-woman doesn’t stir. </p><p>Peace doesn’t come easy, Clarke knows that. After all, she’s been privy to the nights where the fire escape window simply stays open, the cold winter air and a certain superhero free to come and go as she pleases. Clarke takes the bed those nights, bundled up beneath the comforter, nose buried in the sheets. </p><p>This is like that. Familiar, but on the outside looking in, and Clarke reaches for her camera sitting on the cushion next to her. She shifts it in her hands until it rests comfortably, her index finger running over the curve of the shutter release, feeling the dip where the button tappers and meets the frame. Clarke brings the viewfinder up to her eye, and for some reason it feels far more intimate through a lens. Spider-woman center frame, face obscured and her hair spread out over the bed. All the light is gray, but there’s color in the tips of her ears and neck and Clarke presses her finger down.</p><p>There’s a soft click, and then nothing else. Spider-woman remains sleeping, dead to the world as the radio drones on. Clarke faces forward, lowering the camera into her lap, thumb passing back and forth over the dial. </p><p>She doesn’t look back again. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“So,” Raven begins, and Clarke looks up from her laptop. “When am I going to get to visit your new digs?”</p><p>Clarke schools her features into one of nonchalance, but she sees the quirk to Raven’s eyebrow when she looks away. “I don’t think that’s up to me, to be honest.”</p><p>“Uh huh,” Raven says. She leans back in her seat, drumming her fingers on the table between them, lips pursed as she watches a waitress pass by their table. “And who did you say you were staying with again?”</p><p>“Stacy,” Clarke answers before she can think better of it and she rolls with it. “She’s from editing. We’ve done quite a bit of work together recently on the upcoming elections.”</p><p>Raven watches her from across the table, eyes slightly narrowed. By some miracle the scrutiny only lasts a moment,  and Clarke lets out a quiet sigh as their waitress slides two plates of fish and chips in front of them. </p><p>“That’s so like you to take work home,” Raven says, shaking her head. She smiles at the waitress. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Clarke says, noticeably quieter. She closes her laptop, moving it aside to make room for her plate.</p><p>“Enjoy,” the waitress replies before wandering off. </p><p>“Does Abby know?”</p><p>“She does not,” Clarke answers immediately, picking up her knife and fork. “And if I have any say, she never will.”</p><p>“You can’t hide anything from your mom--”</p><p>“And you better not tell her anything,” Clarke says, pointing her knife across the table. “I swear to god, Raven, if my mother gets wind of this I will come for you.”</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Raven says, raising her hands in mock surrender. “I swear I won’t say anything, but your mother has a sixth sense when it comes to you, it’d be a miracle if she didn’t already know somehow.”</p><p>Clarke lowers her hand. “That’s the last thing I need right now.” </p><p>Raven hums and the conversation ends. Clarke cuts a piece of her fish, dabbing it lightly into her tiny cup of tartar sauce before plopping it into her mouth. She chews carefully, but her mind is elsewhere.</p><p>“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Raven asks.</p><p>Clarke swallows, contemplating between taking another bite and answering Raven’s question. In the end she decides it would be more suspicious not to. “Nothing.” Clarke shrugs, but for a brief second the image of Spider-woman laid back in bed appears in the forefront of her mind. “Work.”</p><p>“I know Christmas used to be our thing,” Raven says softly, glancing up. “We can bring it back? I promise Finn won’t be a party pooper.”</p><p>“Finn’s fine,” Clarke says, and Raven gives her a look. “I mean it. He’s a nice guy.”</p><p>“‘A nice guy,’” Raven repeats. “Why does that feel like it needs a ™ after it?”</p><p>Clarke snorts, an involuntary laugh she attempts to stop short but the damage is done. Raven grins, unbridled, and it feels nice. Truly and sincerely nice. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Clarke’s surprised to find Spider-woman home when she gets back with a styrofoam container of leftovers. Spider-woman looks up from where she’s sat at the kitchen table, right foot propped up on the seat of the chair, leg tucked against her chest. It’s her hair, wavy with small curls still wet from air drying, that causes Clarke’s heart to stumble.</p><p>She looks bare. Unguarded, and it’s a sliver of a moment Clarke can’t help but hoard. </p><p>Spider-woman’s posture straightens from its slouch, pen relaxing in her grasp. “Clarke.”</p><p>“Hey,” Clarke says, and she holds out the leftovers. “Fish and chips? I couldn’t finish it.” </p><p>Her statement ends more like a question and it’s in the resulting silence that Spider-woman seems to remember herself, lowering her foot back to the floor. “I would like that.” </p><p>“Cool,” Clarke says. “Let me just…” She places the container down and searches for a plate. Clarke finds one in the sink, freshly washed. “Heat it up.”</p><p>Spider-woman turns back to the table and the notebook sitting open on the top and closes it, pushing it aside. It takes a minute in the microwave, maybe a little less. Clarke takes it out before it beeps, grabbing a fork and knife from the drawer, and then joins Spider-woman at the table.</p><p>“Thank you,” Spider-woman says as Clarke reaches across to place the plate in front of her.</p><p>“Please,” Clarke replies, settling back. She rests her head in her hand. “You’re doing me a favor. Raven and I eat there more often than we should.” </p><p>Spider-woman’s lips tilt ever so slightly upward and she takes the fork and knife in hand, cutting off a small piece of fish. She eats slowly, carefully, and Clarke tries not to watch, but she finds herself doing it anyway, index finger tapping against the table as she contemplates the woman before her. </p><p>It’s a miracle she’s able to tear herself out of it, and Clarke glances away, her eyes finding the forgotten notebook at Spider-woman’s elbow. “Are you working on something?”</p><p>“Just something small,” Spider-woman says, voice light and somewhat hesitant. There’s a subtle nervousness to her movements as she quarters and cuts her fried fish. Tiny fidgets that no doubt signify hesitance, hands adjusting and readjusting their grip on the utensils, but Spider-woman doesn’t tell her to stop so she doesn’t.</p><p>“Fiction you said, right?”</p><p>Spider-woman nods. “Mostly.”</p><p>“Are you published?”</p><p>“You could say that,” Spider-woman replies, pushing the last bits of fish around her plate. “I freelance for a small publishing house that runs a weekly newsprint.”</p><p>“When do you even find the time?”</p><p>“Sometimes I don’t.”</p><p>“Can I read some of your work?”</p><p>“No,” is Spider-woman’s curt answer, though it lacks any measure of harshness. It’s merely honest, and Clarke can understand the need for privacy despite the disappointment. She lowers her eyes, focusing on her hands folded together on the table, thumb rubbing over the knuckle of her index finger. </p><p>“Dante Wallace is holding a fundraiser banquet the day after Christmas,” Clarke says offhand, and Spider-woman pauses, glancing up.</p><p>“You’re going?” Spider-woman asks, brows furrowed.</p><p>“Well,” and Clarke averts her eyes. “Yeah, I am. The Ark gets free passes to nearly every event in the city. It’d be stupid not to.”</p><p>“And going into the lion’s den so to speak isn’t stupid?”</p><p>“What can they do to me if I’m there following the rules?” Clarke asks. “If they have nothing to hide then there’s nothing they need to worry about.”</p><p>“Something tells me you’re not one who regularly follows the rules,” Spider-woman murmurs, focusing again on the last of her fish and chips. She spears a piece of fish and then a couple of fries and puts it into her mouth. </p><p>“You don’t need to worry about me,” Clarke says, watching her. “It’s just a fundraiser.” </p><p>“Unlikely,” Spider-woman responds, pushing around the bits of food too small to bother eating. She keeps her eyes on the plate before her, and for a moment Clarke isn’t sure which statement she’s referring to. </p><p>Clarke decides it’s the latter. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Christmas Eve is both a blessing and a curse. The office closes early, today’s and tomorrow’s work completed and ready to go, and it leaves Clarke with little to do and too much time to think. Spider-woman was long gone by the time she got up for work, and going back to that small quiet apartment is the last thing she wants to do. </p><p>So she calls up Raven.</p><p>Her boyfriend has a nice apartment on the northside, and the only detour Clarke makes besides a quick trip to pick up some booze is to the small electronics store near her work. On a whim really. It was a block away from the bus stop, and the idea had been nagging at her for a while. </p><p>“Is there something I can help you with?” an employee asks after fifteen unproductive minutes are spent standing in front of the numerous cell phones, and Clarke sighs audibly. She knows what she came in for and yet…</p><p>“I’m kind of… lost,” Clarke admits finally.</p><p>“Last minute Christmas gift?”</p><p>Clarke looks back at the selection. “You could say that. I honestly don’t even know if it's something she wants.”</p><p>“Sister, mother…”</p><p>“Friend,” Clarke clarifies, though the word doesn’t quite seem to accurately or wholly describe her and Spider-woman’s relationship.</p><p>“Is there something she needs it for? Work maybe? Or blogging?”</p><p>“All it really needs to do is make phone calls.” The employee looks at her confused. “It’s supposed to be a joke.” </p><p>“In that case,” the employee says, trailing off as they wander away. They’re back within moments with a small minimalist box, which they hand over once within reach. “Tracfone. And this one can take pretty nice pictures. All you need to do is add minutes.”</p><p>Clarke turns over the box, reading the specifications listed on the back. Based on the picture, it looks like any other simplified smartphone, and that’s really all the convincing Clarke needs. “I’ll take it.”</p><p>It’s only when she arrives at Raven’s boyfriend’s apartment, $54.99 poorer, that Clarke begins to wonder how exactly she’s going to explain herself out of this one. Maybe she won’t have to. </p><p>Raven opens the door when she knocks. The chill under her skin had followed her inside, but the warmth of Raven’s apartment permeates, and for once Clarke doesn’t mind being unceremoniously pulled into a hug.  </p><p>“Merry Christmas,” Raven says into her hair, and Clarke would return the embrace if not for the bags in her arms. She hopes the sentiment comes across without. </p><p>“Merry Christmas, Raven.” Clarke sighs, taking in the familiarity she had missed. It feels awfully nice.</p><p>“Hey, Clarke,” comes Finn's voice from the kitchen, and Clarke glances around Raven to find him by the oven, floppy hair and soft smile. Both his hands are covered with oversized mitts and he brings his hands together in a muffled clap. “You’re just in time.”</p><p>“Thank you for having me.”</p><p>“Please,” Raven says, a hand at Clarke's back, ushering her inside. “Don’t insult me.”</p><p>Clarke shakes her head, but doesn’t put up a fight. “I brought booze,” she says, shuffling the bags in her arms, moving towards the counter. She places everything down carefully, removing the wine, a dark red for Raven, and a six pack of hard cider for herself. The electronic store bag, however, remains hidden inside the paper bag.</p><p>Finn huffs, hauling a large dish from the oven and setting it atop the stove with a grunt. Steam rises in plumes, and it smells absolutely heavenly. “I never cooked ham before, hopefully I didn't screw it up.”</p><p>“It looks great,” Clarke says, eyeing the glistening honey glazed ham, before roaming to the other various pots on the stove top. “But isn't this a lot for just the three of us?”</p><p>Raven moves quickly, coming over to help Finn with the array food, turning off burners and stirring pots. “You’re definitely taking left-overs home.”</p><p>Clarke struggles not to smile. “I’m not going to argue with you.”</p><p>“Damn straight you’re not,” Raven says with a nod. “Now sit down, I’m starving.”</p><p>Dinner is just what she needed. Good food and even better company, and the three of them reminisce over ham and mashed potatoes and crispy green beans. High school and the time Raven nearly set the school on fire, driving home from college for spring break and being broken down on some highway in the middle of nowhere after an unexpected detour leaves them without a leg to stand on. Phones nearly dead, Clarke’s dad drives up to save them from being cooked alive on the side of the road. </p><p>“I thought we were going to die,” Raven says, plate nearly clean. Her cheeks are rosy from the wine, and Clarke hides her smile into the lip of her bottle. </p><p>“You’re so dramatic.”</p><p>“I remember your dad’s pickup truck pulling up behind us on the interstate. There we were, just lying in the grass, ready to accept our fate and bam. Jake “Superman” Griffin appears.”</p><p>Finn laughs, the sound subdued, and Clarke thinks back to those early years in college. Fresh and bright eyed. </p><p>It’s an easy memory to recall, the details still sharp and fresh compared to the others that have started to fade. It was the first real heat after a brisk early spring, and Clarke gets lost in that feeling of warmth. In the sun and her father’s embrace. </p><p>It’s been awhile since she’s felt like that</p><p>“You gonna tell me what else is in the bag?” Raven says, wiggling her eyebrows. Next to her, Finn rolls his eyes and Clarke has never felt such camaraderie in a single glance. “Is it for Stacy?”</p><p>“N-no,” Clarke says, stumbling over the word when the name registers in the sober part of her brain. “No, it’s--” Clarke tries, but the look on Raven’s face suggests the excuse is as shit as it feels leaving her mouth. She exhales, “It’s just a joke gift.” </p><p>“That's what they always say,” Raven says with a wink.</p><p>“Oh shut up.”</p><p>Raven laughs. “You never know, she could be good for you.”</p><p>Clarke’s lips twist, and she bites the inside of her cheek. She shakes her head. “I don’t think she would.”</p><p>“You sure about that?”</p><p>“Pretty sure,” Clarke answers, sitting back. As if those extra few inches away from Raven will do something to hide her from Raven’s all knowing stare. </p><p>“Am I ever going to meet her?” Raven asks the same time that Finn stands up, and Clarke uses it as an excuse to look away, following him as he rounds the table to grab the dishes. Raven ‘tsks’ at him, but he ignores her. </p><p>“I got it,” he says, shaking his head at Raven. She huffs.</p><p>Clarke quietly sips her cider, averting her eyes to the light flurries of snow floating beyond the window when Finn passes Raven on the way toward the sink and dips down. The kiss is over quickly, but for some reason it makes her envious. </p><p>“Clarke.”</p><p>“Hm?” She looks back, finding Raven leaning over the table, arms crossed. </p><p>“You never answered my question.”</p><p>Clarke rests the bottom of her bottle against her shoulder, neck held loosely between her fingers. “I don’t know,” Clarke says, tilting her head to the side, “she’s pretty busy.”</p><p>“Busier than you?” Raven counters, perhaps the tiniest bit proud of herself. “I find that hard to believe.”</p><p>Clarke tempers a smile. “Surprisingly.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s almost ten o’clock by the time Clarke makes her way back home. With the buses no longer running, she takes a cab back to Brooklyn, the ride quiet besides the soft carols coming from the radio up front.  Clarke watches the roads pass, the Christmas lights strung between shops and posts illuminating the rather barren sidewalks. The snow melts on impact, leaving the roads and sidewalks a reflection of the light above them. </p><p>Clarke thanks the driver when he pulls up in front of the apartment building, grabbing her bag and the leftovers from dinner, and darts inside, her footsteps splashing in the puddles of slush left to collect in the divots.</p><p>She takes the stairs up, bag under her arm, and it seems shorter than it should be before she’s in front of Spider-woman’s apartment, searching for her keys. Oddly enough, when she finds them in her left pocket, there is a distinct feeling of disappointment. </p><p>Inside is dark besides the small, fake tree perched on the counter, cycling through its various colors, and Clarke flicks on the light to an empty apartment. Nothing has changed since she left for work this morning, and she pushes past the dishes still left on the counter towards the table, setting down her bag. Clarke takes out the cellphone package from inside, reaching for yesterday’s newspaper. She positions the box in the center and begins to fold.</p><p>There’s only a minor hiccup in which she scours the various drawers for some tape and all she manages to find is a roll of duct tape. When she stands back to look at her work, she nearly cringes, but in the end it makes her laugh and roll her eyes. She grabs a marker from her bag and draws a simple spider over the newsprint before placing it underneath the tree on the counter.</p><p>Clarke gets ready for bed soon after. She pulls out some sweats and a sweater from the clean pile in the bathroom and changes silently, the comfortable worn fabric an instant relief after nearly 16 hours in work wear, no matter how casual. The fact that it’s technically Spider-woman’s a mere afterthought and she brushes her teeth before crawling into the empty bed in the corner. </p><p>She practically tips over into the comfortable sheets, sighing at the comforting give of the mattress, so much better than the couch. Grasping outward, Clarke pulls up the blankets to her nose, breathing in and then out, and her body slowly relaxes.</p><p>The only thing is--</p><p>Sleep feels brief, but that might because it is. It’s only out of spite that she refuses to open her eyes at the subtle crinkling of paper echoing in the silence of the apartment. Clarke scrunches her nose, pulling her legs to her chest. The heat stays close, but sleep slips away with the seconds, and she rolls over, begrudgingly opening her eyes to find the silhouette of Spider-woman by the counter. The tree shifts colors from blue to red and in it Clarke sees the small wrapped box in her hands.</p><p>Her body unfurls, the blankets whispering against each other, and Spider-woman glances over her shoulder, face unmasked and unguarded in the colorful light. “I’m sorry.” Her hands drop. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”</p><p>Clarke stifles a yawn beneath the sheets, pulling them tighter around her shoulders and blinking away the moisture in the corner of her eyes. She enjoys the weight for one last moment, and then pushes the covers aside, moving her feet to the floor. </p><p>“You didn’t,” Clarke lies, rubbing away the little bits of sleep left in her eyes. She blinks afterwards, adjusting to the low light. </p><p>Spider-woman doesn’t move. Her gaze drops, studying the wrapped box she turns over in her hands, and her attention remains even when Clarke moves to stand, shuffling over on tired feet, trailing the tips of her fingers over the back of the kitchen chair as she passes. </p><p>“You can open it, you know,” Clarke says softly, and Spider-woman’s hands cease their gentle inspection. “It’s for you.”</p><p>“I haven’t…” Spider-woman begins, but somewhere along the way she gets lost. Clarke steps close, leaning her weight against the counter, watching Spider-woman’s thumb pass back and forth over the scribbled drawing. “You didn’t have to do this.”</p><p>“Don’t thank me yet.”</p><p>The corner of Spider-woman’s mouth quirks, this small upward tilt, and Clarke’s stomach flips pleasantly. She wants it to happen again, so she inches closer until they’re barely a foot apart, and nudges her elbow against Spider-woman’s arm, urging.</p><p>It takes a second, but Spider-woman slips her thumb underneath the paper and tape and tears upward. The wrapping comes undone in pieces, the remnants left on the counter in a neat pile until the only thing that remains is that small white box.</p><p>“Just in case you need to reach me,” Clarke says, and Spider-woman looks up. The look in her eyes makes Clarke feel self-conscious.</p><p>“Clarke.”</p><p>“Or so I can tell you when we run out of milk.”</p><p>“That’s not how this can work.”</p><p>“I’m joking,” Clarke says, even though she’s not. She watches Spider-woman’s shoulders drop and the tension release. “I thought it might make you laugh.”</p><p>Spider-woman stares at the box in her hands before setting it aside on the counter. She doesn’t move away however, and neither does Clarke.</p><p>“I can return it,” Clarke says, “if you really don’t like it. I just thought it maybe might come in handy or--”</p><p>Clarke would blame it on the darkness of the apartment or the sleep still lingering at the edges of her mind, but the kiss that steals her lips leaves her mind momentarily blank. The tenderness of it almost shocking. It reminds her of that moment nearly a month ago, drenched in cold rain. It feels warm this time, a heat in the contact of Spider-woman’s lips pressing against her own, the hint of her tongue. </p><p>It’s almost cruel how fast Spider-woman takes it away, pulling backward and Clarke unconsciously follows, keeping the distance between them minimal. Spider-woman allows her at least that, and Clarke opens her eyes. </p><p>“This puts you on the map, Clarke,” Spider-woman whispers, the tip of her nose still close enough that it’s a simple thing to dip forward until they touch. Clarke keeps her eyes open, darting over the planes of Spider-woman’s face, her lashes dark over her cheeks.</p><p>This warmth feels secure. Feels safe. “I don’t even know your name.”</p><p>Spider-woman’s hand rises, cups her cheek, fingers tangling in the hair at Clarke’s temples, and the kiss that follows is hungrier than the first. Their bodies flush as Spider-woman steps forward, her left hand mirroring the right and just as gentle. Clarke’s senses fill to the point of bursting, and Clarke reaches for her waist, a sort of tether when it seems as though her body would rather float away. There’s not much to hold on to, but she tries anyway, grasping at Spider-woman’s hips, the slick fabric of the suit like a second skin.</p><p>Spider-woman is the first to retreat, but Clarke doesn’t let her go. Not fully. Contact remains in the warmth of Spider-woman’s body under Clarke’s palm even after she pulls away. </p><p>“Running away again?” Clarke says, the tease hopefully masking the disappointment she feels gnawing at her insides. Her grip on Spider-woman’s hip deepens for a second, and she clears the roughness from her voice.</p><p>A hand rests atop hers, and Clarke relents, moving to pull her hand away. To her surprise, Spider-woman holds it.</p><p>“No,” Spider-woman says softly, holding eye contact, and Clarke’s lips part subtly, breathing in through her mouth. She lets go of Clarke’s hand in stages, fingertips trailing over her palm and then dropping.</p><p>She steps around Clarke, the cold December air seeming to linger around her, and disappears quietly into the bathroom. The faucet turns on soon thereafter and Clarke leans her weight against the counter, head dropping into her hand, rubbing her forehead. She swallows, throat still thick with emotion, heart beating a little too fast. It’s a minute before she manages to move, pushing off from the counter to grab a clean cup from the sink and filling it with water from the filter. She drinks, suddenly parched. <br/>
 <br/>
Clarke finds a spot on the couch afterward, too keyed up despite the failed attempt at sleep. Her eyes are tired, but she sets her refilled glass down on the end table and scrolls through her phone. A distraction that in the end doesn’t do its job. Her ears are tuned to the sound of the shower, the rush of the water, and the quietness when it stops. </p><p>A few minutes later, Spider-woman sits tentatively down beside her, a sweatpants clad leg parallel to her own, the distance between them so minuscule it might as well not even exist. And after a second it doesn’t. The couch is most certainly big enough for them both, and yet Clarke’s eyes are drawn to the point where they touch. It takes her a second longer to register the cellphone box that Spider-woman slides into her peripheral.</p><p>Clarke looks up. </p><p>“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a cellphone,” Spider-woman says, and the blush that colors her cheeks does far more to Clarke’s heart than should be allowed. “Do you think you could help me?”</p><p>“O-oh,” Clarke stutters, “of course, yeah.” She takes the box, prying off the top. Setting it aside, she digs out the phone and the sim card along with the instructions and included charger. The employee back at the store was kind enough to get it all set for her, so it’s a simple thing to put together. She inserts the sim card before replacing the battery and the back cover, snapping everything back into place and turning it around in her hands. It turns on after holding down the power button, and Clarke hands the phone over as it powers up. “Here.”</p><p>Spider-woman takes it wordlessly in both hands, cradling it, and Clarke leans to the right, her shoulder and arm pressed against Spider-woman’s. It might be just her imagination, but Spider-woman’s posture gentles, a slouch that brings their heads that much closer together.</p><p>Clarke guides her through the account set-up, which doesn’t really require much guiding at all. It’s self explanatory, but she keeps close for moral support, angling her face closer to the sleeve of Spider-woman’s shirt, the scent pleasant under her nose. Adding minutes using the prepaid card, however, is a little bit more difficult than it should be.</p><p>“Hold on,” Clarke murmurs, pulling away, “I think you need to…" </p><p>It’s a second, but Spider-woman understands, leaning back so Clarke can reach across her lap and snatch the remnants of the torn pieces of cardboard backing from the other side of the couch.</p><p>Clarke flips it around, the directions ripped in half, and she pieces them together. “Oh, that’s easy,” she says and she holds out her hand for the phone. Spider-woman surrenders it to her without complaint. She dials the listed number and then following the prompts, enters the pin on the back of the card. </p><p>It takes less than two minutes and with nothing else to do with her hands, she navigates to the contacts and types in her number, saving it simply under “CG”. Clarke hands the phone back. “You’re all set.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Spider-woman says, lowering her hands and phone to her lap where they rest motionless. </p><p>Clarke lifts her shoulders in an easy shrug. “Merry Christmas.”</p><p>The screen shuts off after a minute left idling, and Clarke doesn’t make any effort to move. The tree on the counter cycles through its colors, the lights playing off the side of Spider-woman’s face, and Clarke closes the distance again.</p><p>She doesn’t know why she feels shy this time. Maybe it’s the way Spider-woman seems to tremble when their lips meet, this shaky kind of sigh breathed over Clarke’s lips in between each gentle kiss. A handful of short poignant notes. Too long and Clarke knows she might not stop, but this way at least she still gets her fill.</p><p>However brief it may be. </p><p>Spider-woman angles her face away after the third, the adjustment insignificant but noticeable, and Clarke takes the hint. She stills, savoring the closeness for the last few seconds that it lasts, sucking in a quiet breath when Spider-woman retreats further. Clarke averts her focus to her knees and the floor beyond them. </p><p>“Emergencies only,” Spider-woman says after a long drawn out silence.</p><p>Clarke looks up at the blank state of the television and their reflection in it and self-consciously pushes the hair back from her face and behind her ear. “Okay.”</p><p>“This can’t be--”</p><p>“I know,” Clarke says, glancing at the woman next to her. She studies the strain of the tendons in Spider-woman’s grip, fingers knotted together around the cell-phone. Clarke licks her lips, opens her mouth. “But you can ask for help. You know that right?”</p><p>Spider-woman’s head dips, bits of her hair falling over her shoulder. Clarke reaches out a tentative hand, and when no objection makes itself apparent, tenderly brushes it away from her face.  </p><p>Their eyes meet, the fatigue that clings to Spider-woman’s face highlighting the green of her eyes. She takes Clarke’s hand in hers and lowers it. “I’ll keep that in mind.”</p><p>“Will you, though?” Clarke counters back, quiet, fingers curling around Spider-woman’s in a gentle hold.  </p><p>Spider-woman shrugs, but her lips tilt upwards in a small smile. “Maybe.”</p><p>Clarke rolls her eyes. Looking away, she exhales this long sigh as she rests back against the couch, Spider-woman’s hand held captive in her lap. She lets her eyes drift shut.</p><p>“You’re tired,” Spider-woman states, and Clarke can’t help but snort.</p><p>“What gave you that idea?” She chances a look out of one eye, and Clarke finds what she expects. Thinly veiled incredulousness. Though Spider-woman is far from refreshed herself. She lets go of Spider-woman’s hand, gesturing to the bed behind them. When Spider-woman doesn’t move, Clarke takes it upon herself to playfully nudge her in its direction. “Go,” she says, and the bits of laughter at the edge of her voice causes Spider-woman’s smile to widen. “Before I change my mind.”</p><p>It takes her a second, but Spider-woman pulls herself over the back of the couch and onto the bed, and Clarke closes her eyes, listening to the sound of the sheets as they shift behind her. It’s only a second or two before everything settles and things grow quiet, and Clarke welcomes the exhaustion as it takes hold.</p><p>When she opens them again, the first thing she sees is the sun, bright through the eastern windows facing the street. The smell of coffee is strong through the apartment, and it’s the sound of sizzling that coerces Clarke up from the reclined state she finds herself in, grabbing hold of the blanket before it slips off onto the floor.</p><p>Clarke finds Spider-woman in the kitchen, and as if on cue she turns to look over her shoulder, wooden spatula in her hand. She’s still dressed in last night’s sweats and t-shirt and for a moment the woman before her is simply that. A woman. Not a superhero with a second, larger life outside of this apartment. </p><p>And Clarke realizes a split second too late that it is a dangerous thought to have. She shakes her head, moving aside the blanket, and standing. Her back aches, but as she moves closer, the pain slips further from her mind.</p><p>“Good morning,” Spider-woman says softly, catching Clarke’s stare out of the corner of her eye. Clarke steps close, side by side near the stove as a pan of scrambled eggs cook.</p><p>Clarke looks up, following the line of Spider-woman’s neck to her jaw and nose, and the stutter her heart makes is troubling to say the least.</p><p>It’s the last thing she needs, but it doesn’t make her want it any less.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Spider-woman leaves in the evening, called into action by the forces that be, but she takes the phone with her, and Clarke goes to bed lonelier than should be allowed. The following morning doesn’t change anything, and it’s in the wake of the resulting stillness that Clarke finds the motivation to get ready. She lays out an outfit over the bed and then showers, spending longer than necessary underneath its warmth and then even longer afterward dawdling about the apartment half dressed. </p><p>She makes sure her camera’s memory is efficiently free, that she has the right lens and that her wallet and press badge are right where she needs them to be. She makes a pot of coffee and brings it into the bathroom while she does her hair, phone on the sink countertop, idly reading through press articles and watching recent news videos as the curler gets up to temp. </p><p>Progress is slow after all, but she’s more than ready by six o’clock. She rounds up her things, throws on a jacket, and locks up on her way out, flagging down a cab once she’s made it to the street. </p><p>The Glasshouse is alight with color even in the darkness of mid winter, the street bright from the light that spills out from large glass windows. A valet service parks cars as they pull up in front and Clarke signals to the cab driver to drop her off a little further up. She pays with cash and a thank you, before hauling herself from the backstreet and out onto the sidewalk. holding the camera hung around her neck, Clarke weaves herself through the pedestrians and various nightlife.</p><p>Luckily, the line inside moves quickly enough where it almost doesn’t exist. There’s groups of people mingling in the foyer dressed in formal attire, and Clarke heads up to the podium at the front desk. The woman stationed there smiles widely.</p><p>“Name please.”</p><p>“Clarke Griffin. The Ark.”</p><p>The woman’s eyes dart over her. “May I see your press badge?”</p><p>Clarke pulls out the lanyard from where it had been tucked under her jacket and the woman nods before looking down, flipping through the pages to make a note on a blank line at the rear of the ledger. It’s only a second, a familiar name Clarke thinks she sees, but it’s gone too quickly to confirm when the woman flips back to the front. </p><p>“Thank you very much, Ms. Griffin. You can find a coat check behind you if you wish to store your things. The auction and charity dinner is held just down the corridor in hall A and is set to start at 7pm. I hope you enjoy the night.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>For the first quarter of an hour, Clarke mingles downstairs, watching the remaining attendees file in, taking photos of the well dressed. They’re eager to pose, some already with drinks, and it makes her job easier as the minutes pass and people begin to head upstairs for the event. </p><p>The main room is a large banquet hall filled wall to wall with tables with white decorative table cloths and folded cloth napkins and crystalline dishware. Clarke finds a spot off to the side to take a couple photos before finding the least crowded table in the back. The city sparkles just outside, vibrant at night, and Clarke finds herself drawn in by it as she settles into her seat, smiling politely at the only other occupant. </p><p>“First time?” the man asks. His posture is slouched just so. Enough to look relaxed, but not entirely unprofessional, tie loose and the top button undone. </p><p>“No,” Clarke says, pinching the stem of her wine glass between her fingers. She spins it slowly.</p><p>“Could’ve fooled me,” the man says. “You look like you’re about to puke.”</p><p>Clarke narrows her eyes. “And you are?”</p><p>“Roan Winter,” he says, humming when a look of recognition crosses Clarke’s face. A little bit of a smile pulls at his lips, and he reaches up to rub at the short trimmed beard on his chin. “I’m attending in place of my mother. These types of things,” and he waves his hand dismissively, “only get duller.”</p><p>“I don’t think they’re supposed to be fun,” Clarke comments when something out of the corner of her eyes catches her attention. An older man walks up onto the raised dais at the front of the room, white suit and white tie and white hair. He adjusts the button on the cuff of his sleeve as he takes his place in front of the microphone. </p><p>Clarke stands for a better angle, bringing her camera up to eye level. The spotlights make him seem gaunt, though it’s hard for her to remember Dante Wallace’s face as anything but skinny. Thin around his cheeks and face, the colorful backdrop full of sponsorship logos and his campaign slogan push him from the background and into the forefront. </p><p>It’ll make for the perfect cover picture.</p><p>“First and foremost, welcome. I would like to wish you all a happy and joyous holiday, and as we traverse into the new year, wellness and prosperity. These last few weeks have been daunting, but hopefully with tonight's success, change won’t be as difficult to grasp.” He pauses, scanning the floor of the room. “Thank you and enjoy the rest of the evening.”</p><p>The people around them clap, and Clarke joins in, watching as the waiting emcee closes the distance to take Dante’s place at the microphone. His smile is bright and his voice is warm as he takes over his role announcing the festivities of the upcoming night, but it’s the brief moment at the edge of the stage that catches Clarke’s attention. </p><p>There hasn’t been much in the way of news on Dante Wallace’s only son in the past few years let alone months as Dante’s campaign has run its course towards reelection. A side business, fueled by his father’s money, meant Cage Wallace had been outside of the political sphere since before his father had first taken office, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise to see him now. He shares a word with his father by the edge of the stage, partially cloaked by the shadows created by the spotlights. It’s when Cage turns back around, his eyes finding her among the crowd, that Clarke’s spine goes rigid.</p><p>It’s over quick enough to be considered a coincidence, but the sudden uneasiness doesn’t fade, and Clarke waits. She sits through the first couple of auctions, sipping her drink and scribbling casual notes for later into her notebook before finally pushing back her chair and standing.</p><p>Roan turns to watch. “Leaving already?”</p><p>“Bathroom,” is all Clarke says. Roan raises his eyebrows but says nothing further. </p><p>She gathers what little she has, taking one final sip of champagne, before slipping away out into the hall, backtracking towards the main entrance. It’s empty at the moment with people in their seats enjoying the event, and for a second Clarke stops.</p><p>It’s a bad idea, she knows that. But when has that ever stopped her before?</p><p>Clarke looks both ways before hopping over the desk. She holds onto her camera to keep it from swaying, landing as silently as possible on her feet on the other side. </p><p>At first glance, there isn't much to find. Empty shelves and some drawers, a couple different kinds of brochures, and the computer screen, now asleep. She wiggles the mouse, watching as the screen flairs back to life--and is immediately greeted with the login. Clarke exhales through her nose and squats down for a better look at the shelves.</p><p>She notices a set of drawers to the left and to her surprise they aren’t locked. The first opens to extra brochures and business cards and stationary. The second, however, is exactly what she’s looking for. She pulls out the ledger, setting it down onto the front desk, and shuffles quickly through the pages. Names fly by.</p><p>“Shit,” Clarke whispers through her teeth when the sound of security echoes through the hallway. She digs through her pocket for her phone, swiping through for the camera app and holds it aloft, flipping through the pages, pausing just long enough for her phone to focus and steady and take the shot. There must be at least four front to back pages of the ledger, and Clarke makes sure she gets a picture of every one. </p><p>She closes it once she’s done, scrambling from behind the podium just as the security detail rounds the corner into the foyer, slipping into the stairwell by the front desk. The door shuts loudly and by the sound of the quickening footsteps, she doesn’t have time to waste.</p><p>Clarke’s breath comes in heavy gasps, and she takes the exit out onto the fourth floor, following the hallway. She bypasses a plethora of empty conference halls and a barren cafeteria before coming across another set of stairs, yanking the handles and throwing the doors wide. Her instincts take her further up.</p><p>Up on the roof, the wind is a menace. The end of December claws its way out, and Clarke’s eyes prickle with tears as the cold hits her face. She blinks, darting out towards a tall bulkhead, disappearing behind it and out of the line-of-sight of the roof access stairwell.</p><p>She knows she shouldn’t, but… she does it anyway, holding up her cellphone, swiping through menus until she finds exactly what she’s looking for. Or whom. She taps the call button, bringing up the phone to her ear, and the ringing stretches out among the wind. </p><p>“I told you this number was for emergencies only,” comes Spider-woman’s voice over the line, and the mix of exhaustion and exertion is evident even buried under the shitty reception. The static isn’t enough to hide the rasp, no matter how hard she tries, and Clarke feels this pang of guilt poke at her insides. For Spider-woman’s sake, Clarke doesn’t mention it.</p><p>“I know, I’m sorry,” Clarke says, only partially so. She hates that the sound of that voice triggers an almost Pavlovian response, and it’s just her mind flashing warmth, warmth, warmth on endless repeat. “But I’m in a bit of a pickle.”</p><p>“A pickle.” Spider-woman repeats.</p><p>“I might not be somewhere I should.”</p><p>“I don’t associate with criminals, Clarke.”</p><p>Clarke peers around the corner of her hiding spot, surveying the roof for any sign of security. Or worse, the NYPD. The shadows stretch long at night, the lights from the nearby buildings bright like stars, bouncing off planes of glass. “What if it’s in the name of justice?”</p><p>Spider-woman sighs. “Where are you?”</p><p>“The Glasshouse,” Clarke answers. “12th Ave.”</p><p>“Ah,” is all Spider-woman offers in response, as if that alone explains everything. And Clarke guesses it kinda does.</p><p>“I had an invitation,” Clarke says, unsure why she feels the need to justify her actions. It’s the truth. Working at the Ark has many perks, and this is just one of them. It would be an outright lie, however, if she said she had never abused that privilege, so she keeps her mouth shut.</p><p>The wind catches the receiver on Spider-woman’s end, a gust of wind that drowns out the following words, and Clarke pulls her cell phone away from her ear until it calms down.</p><p>“Sorry,” she says when things have quieted, the phone once again pressed to her ear. “You cut out for a second.”</p><p>“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” and it’s quiet, subdued, and the warmth floods back into Clarke’s chest with a renewed vengeance. “Hang tight.”</p><p>Clarke’s heart thumps. “Sure.”</p><p>The line goes silent soon thereafter, and Clarke pockets her phone. She keeps a sharp watch on the roof access stair, but every spare noise draws her attention away. For once she wishes the city would sleep, if only to improve her focus, eyes shifting from the stairwell door and the empty surrounding space.</p><p>True to her word, it’s a couple more minutes before Spider-woman lands in her trademark near silent fashion, jogging off the remaining momentum of the swing until she comes to a complete stop some twenty or so feet away by the edge. Her posture is tense as she scans the rooftop, all of it in her neck and shoulders, and Clarke decides to put her out of her misery.</p><p>At the first footstep, Spider-woman’s head swivels, locking on, and the reaction is almost immediate. Her shoulders drop, posture no longer pin straight. “Are you ready?” she says without preamble.</p><p>Clarke closes the distance. “Thank you.” Spider-woman doesn’t move and for a second, now barely inches away, the proximity makes Clarke’s head swim. Clarke blinks twice, looking up. “I owe you one.”</p><p>Spider-woman hums softly and Clarke swears she can feel it. “You’re welcome,” Spider-woman says. She takes Clarke’s wrists gently in her hands, guides them around her neck. “But don’t make it a habit.”</p><p>“I won’t,” Clarke says, and as soon as it’s out, it’s more a half truth than anything else.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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